


Ballad of the Blueskies

by OriWhitedeer



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Book: Explorer's Guide to Wildemount, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Dungeons & Dragons Campaign, Gen, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriWhitedeer/pseuds/OriWhitedeer
Summary: When a consecuted bard enters his 20th life, he discovers the ballad he'd been writing over his lifetimes is not just a simple song, but a prophecy. The bard sets out to find 'The Three Sapphires' mentioned in the ballad to fulfill the prophecy, whether that be ascension, the salvation of the world...or destruction of countless innocent souls. Will the bard and his companions triumph over those who would see them fail and  save the souls of billions yet unborn or will the beacon of hope die with them?
Kudos: 7





	1. Prologue

\---

“L-Luciel?”

A young man awoke with the last remnants of a fond dream fading from sight, covered in spent incense, alone and in darkness. One who saw no more than 25 summers and was prepared to meet oblivion well before his 26th, could hear his heart’s rhythmic percussion against his sweat-drenched chest. The well-attended bedroom, which would have been a lightless black stroud only hours ago, was as brilliant-lit shades of grey; a pallet that brought a pang of fright to the young man’s withered and blanket-bound frame. The overpowering smell of burnt lumber overtook the light fragrance left behind by the blessed oils. Only the faint sounds of crickets beyond the small window could be heard as accompaniment.

The young man closed his eyes tight and began playing the events of the days prior in the true-darkness of the mind’s private theater. Muffled voices came, the image of his father’s stern face, his frantic fiancé shrieking to what looked like a halfling dressed in a high wizard’s clothes to “do something, do SOME-thing!”

He remembered his own, delirious mumbling, reaching out with a weak hand towards the blurring faces. His fair fiancé grasped twig-thin fingers, weakly melting over his name: “Alrick, I’m here.” The memory brought a small moment of comfort and a smile, a gesture that quickly faded as things once again blurred, sounds sharpening to his father’s cutting words just as the sun set that day.

“You have a choice to make. Die my son, Alrick — or live as a monster with no name. Decide quickly, you don’t have the night left in you,” the grey-bearded human dressed in clergyman’s robes, of whom Alrick lovingly obeyed as his lord father, dryly spoke as if talking to some contemptible sinner. Then darkness returned to Alrick’s mind as a sudden, alien movement beneath him caused his eyes to shoot open again. He took a deep breath as his father’s words echoed within, allowing his right hand to emerge from beneath the blankets to wipe sweaty black bangs away from his brow.

Alrick felt his very core grow cold, slowly moving his hand to better take in the illuminated details. For a moment it seemed as if twin candles were being shone from somewhere beyond his headboard until the realization came: it was the lights of his own, now-glowing eyes that drove the darkness from his vision. Alrick moved his glowing gaze to foreign-looking fingers. The tips of his once fleshy pale hands were as ebon arrowheads, slowly blending into the rest of his hand which appeared to be a shade of blue-grey that could represent no human hue.

He buried the offending hand back under the covers. Terror-struck thoughts raced through Alrick’s mind: was he dead or trapped in a warlock’s reagent? Was his grey-hue the result of being a necromancer’s undead abomination? Again the alien movement came, something long and snake-like visibly moving the blankets atop him. Alrick gasped and quickly sat up, knocking an empty vial of holy oil to the floor with a sharp chime. He jolted again, barely able to contain a small scream as the covers fell from him. Though the linen bedclothes he fell asleep in still adorned his form, more of the blue-grey flesh met Alrick’s vision between the folds of fabric. Tears began forming as more memories came in quick succession.

The scenes shifted quickly: in the first, it was a warm day, a number of the Dwendalian Empire’s finest young crowns’ guard were doing drills, preparing for a sortie of some sort. The higher-ups didn’t say and none among the rowdy young men cared so long as there was glory and coin in it for them. Two among them were particularly excited; the privileged first-boys of well-connected lords were known to keep one another’s council since childhood. They both fondly held the thought of becoming home-town heroes and settling together as much as their families would allow.

In the next, it was a cool day and one of the two lads, a handsome though short young man with long raven hair, couldn’t keep his balance, nor could he stop coughing. When it appeared he lacked the strength to wield his sorcerer’s scepter, the fairer fellow insisted he get some rest as the day of their departure for fame and fortune drew near.

Then the memory shifted to another brilliant day, blue skies as far as the eye could see. The fair-haired lad called Erwin, already departed weeks ago leaving his closest companion Alrick ailing abed, barely able to breathe. It was a wizard, not a healer who gave him the grim news and a life-shattering decision. He was bewitched by powerful spell-work, which was using his very life-force as fuel. Not even the best experts his father could buy seemed to know the nature of the spell, nor why he was being afflicted by it, but offered the simple solution of its removal being the best choice to spare the dying young man his life.

Something in his father’s tone as the clergyman dismissed the wizards and sorcerers from the manor filled the dying lad with dread. After a long silence, the truth came cold and clinical from his father’s mouth. Every word was as a dagger cutting away at his life, his values, his sense of self, and everything he thought he knew about his family. In the end, the only words of comfort his father had to offer were: “You have a choice to make. Die my son, Alrick — or live as a monster with no name…”

Then it was night and he woke up alone, sitting there with tears streaming down his cheeks, frozen and fearing what the mirror might reflect. As the crickets concluded their nightly minuet the light chirp of birds beginning to prepare their morning tune softly beckoned through the window. Color began returning to the room with the hint of light peeking over the surrounding houses.

Alrick began to tremble at blueness in his complexion and the strange sensation coming from the corners of his forehead and base of his spine. A part of him that wasn’t there before began shifting and slithering beneath the covers once more, causing him to all but leap from the bed onto clawed feet. Alrick stood at attention, forcing his eyes shut, not daring to look down or back for what inhuman features might catch his eye. He knew what awaited him at the far end of the room when the sun fully rose. With a deep breath and a shiver he opened his eyes and slowly watched towards a small mirror in the corner of the room. When Alrick’s vision met what was reflected he took a step back at the stranger before him.

His blue eyes were gone, the twin sapphires coveted by all the maidens fair were replaced by tarnished silver orbs encased in vivid sky-blue skin. His raven hair held more pops of indigo than black as two blue horns tipped in ebon curved back behind his pointed ears. Alrick’s purple-blue lips hung open slightly to reveal sharp fangs as his voice found no purchase. And most startling of all, a long spade-tipped tail slowly coiled its way around his waist like a cruel, stalking viper. The silence lingered only until the image in the mirror registered not as a stranger but what he now was.

The nameless monster screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed until all the air had been drained from him. His father did not come, the manor staff did not approach. His fiancee was in the church across town deep in prayer and the neighbors who were counting the coin paid to mind their own business, pretended not to hear. The animals that happily sung their morning calls were silenced.

The monster sank to his knees, begging his god for deliverance, praying that this was all just his mind breaking down before the room would disappear and give way to oblivion. He cried and asked why, over and over again: why? — why did he choose this? Why couldn’t he face death with grace and humanity. Why couldn’t he have departed his father’s son with all honor and legacy intact. Instead he sank low, proselytizing and praying to the mirror in vein, hoping someone or something would come and save him from his choice.

A loud mewling call came from the window, snapping him out of despair’s grip and loosing an image in his mind that seemed to dry his tears and still his shaking frame. He turned to see a small shadowed figure bathed in the dawn light. His breath was caught a moment, before realizing the horned and tailed specter was not a ghost to haunt him for his sins, but in fact a small black cat that had seemingly taken umbrage with his outburst. The nameless monster let out a long sigh as the little black cat silently watched through the window with its tail slowly twitching before a cautious tweet caught its attention and had the creature scampering towards breakfast.

The brief appearance of the cat brought with it one last memory, not to torment the pitiful creature further, but offered a moment of respite. That night’s fond dream returned to him: the scene of a child, a blue-skinned, horned-and-tailed boy no older than 10 summers playing with a veritable litter of kittens. The child in the dream called to him with a squeaking, bubbly tone to come play, and that the black-furred one with yellow-green eyes liked him best. Then came more memories of a time forcibly forgotten. Times that tried him and made him feel as much guilt and shame has pride and love. The dream triggered memories left the nameless creature alone once more but no longer as utterly lonesome as his predicament made him.

He wiped the last remaining tears from his flushed-lavender cheeks. A genuine smile to spread for a moment before they moved to whisper a name that his father forbade within those hallowed walls, the name and painful parting he’d forced from his mind for 15 summers and was the only shred of hope he dared grasp in that moment.

“Luciel.”

\---


	2. Patty-Blue's Lucky Brew

\---

A blue-skinned tiefling man, caked from upright horns to ebon tail-tip in dead leaves and mud, let out a long, exhausted sigh. The old woman’s gratitude did little to lift his spirits after the well-known ‘handy-man’ spent the day wading knee-deep in her flooded pantry. The only parts left unsullied were the precious sapphire stone on a necklace around his muscular neck and the weighty coin purse jingling at his hip. The soothing brews the latter would procure brought a joyful flick to his spaded tail. A mew from the black tom cat that nuzzled and cuddled its way between the tiefling’s nimble legs caused a pleading chuckle to escape his lips.

“C’mon Blinkie, bugger off; I already gave ye supper and a good-night treat,” the tiefling weakly scolded with a raspy, smoke-coated tone. The cat howled a bit in protest before receiving a playful tap on its little nose. With an indignant snort the little creature darted off leaving its companion to continue in peace.

The tiefling’s silver eyes sought the golden glow of the lantern just outside a sanctuary from dreary day-jobs and bowing to betters on the ‘up-side’ of town: The Little River Tavern. The humble ale-house in the ‘down-side’ of town openly served all-comers and the lone tiefling known as ‘Patrick Bluesky’ came late, often, and always after some manner of exertion. When at last the light drew close, Patrick could hear unusually sweet-sung lyrics spun over the gentle strum of a lute.

“The ‘ell’s Ulf got playin t’night?” Patrick mumbled as he crossed the threshold into the small, well-attended tavern. There, serving a gaggle of dwarven laborers was the owner, Ulfruss Redmane: a tall, maple-headed, oak-strong human whom Patrick met when they were both still saplings. In the far corner of the room was the source of the music: a drow dressed in flamboyant bard’s garb sat strumming his moon-lute and deftly shifting his soft love song into a bawdy shanty.

In all his 25 summers, Patrick had never seen the bard’s like outside of wanted posters or Dwendalian military recruitment pamphlets. The tiefling blinked to see if the figure was produced by a tired mind in need of a good brown beer, but gave an amused huff when the singing drow remained in existence.

“Ballsy bugger,” Patrick quietly mumbled, wiping some grime from a long scar on his left cheek and plucking a crunchy leaf from his pointed beard before quickly striding to take his favorite seat at the bar. Patrick waited with a rhythmic flick of the tip of his tail before motioning for his usual. When Ulf’s attention finally came to the familiar blue figure, he couldn’t stifle an amused snort.

“Hey Patty— well, don’t you look like shite. What happened? Someone throw you down a well?” Ulf asked as he began pouring a large metal stein full of Patrick’s favorite nut-brown brew. 

“Nah, ‘ol Bett’s pantry flooded again and ‘er boy didn’t wanna get ‘is new shoes dirty. Don’t bother me none, got enough coin to pay for the girl’s treatment and a barrel’a beer for me trouble.”

“One of Cathrine’s girls sick again?”

“Nah,” Patrick leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone, “one of the customers was a warlock. Nasty bugger, didn’t pay and beat one of ‘er girls up pretty bad. Turns out the blighter put a curse on ‘er too. The medicine and cleric cost a fortune, but we managed it.”

“That’s well; food’s on the house tonight,” Ulf said, smiling as Patrick gave him a grateful nod.

“Thank, mate. Say, where’d ye find that one? Surprised ‘is arse didn’t get jumped th’moment ‘e set foot in Dwendal…” Patrick tilted his head slightly, motioning to the drow, then to the pack of gruff-looking human workers while keeping his eyes fixed forward and on the newly-forged pewter drinking stein being placed before him.

“We’re open to all comers,” Ulf shook his head, “Besides, didn’t you hear about the armistice?”

“Arm-mistress? Oh, I’d love t’meet ‘er,” Patty grinned. Ulf didn’t seem to notice Patty’s remark or at least didn’t move to acknowledge it.

“No, shite-fer-brains, arm-mis-tice. Means the Kryns and Dwendalians ain’t fighting. At least not for the moment. S’been that way for a few moons now. The ‘ells you been?”

“D’ye really wanna know?” Patrick smirked and lewdly licked the rim of his stein with his obscenely long purple tongue before taking another swig of beer. He paused to press far harder on the lid-latch of his drink than he was used to before remarking, “these new?”

“Sure are. No more spills, no more stale film or leftover dregs for my goodly patrons,” Ulf proclaimed in a hushed tone as he moved to pour another round for some of the workmen.

“Aw, that’s best part; s’just seasonin’,” Patrick japed. As he enjoyed his atypically smooth beer, Patrick felt familiar fingers tug on his long, raven ponytail. He mock-choked on his drink and gave dramatic words of protest, but the half-elf tavern wench’s wry pink lips formed into a sharp smirk.

“Carry on like that and I’ll pull harder next time, and not on your hair,” she warned and went behind the bar to take up her usual apron.

“Oy, don’t you threaten me wiv a good time, Gretta-Mae,” Patrick spoke and extended an arm to allow the willowy wench to give a hug and friendly kiss on the cheek.

“Good gods, you smell like river scum; what happened?” Gretta-Mae remarked as she sniffed the spot ok her clothes that made contact with Patrick’s muddy red shirt.

“Just a day’s work, love. Speaking of, you likin’ this new job? Ulf treating ye good?”

“Better than the old one, much,” Gretta-Mae informed with a more sincere smile. “And Ulf is a far better gentleman than my frilly-necked former clients.”

“S’real good t’ere; th’girls miss ye terribly, a’course, but send their love,” Patrick smiled and took another sip of his drink as Greta-Mae placed a hand on her hip.

“They do or _you_ do?” 

“Why not both?— nah, fer serious, though, I’m real glad for ye,” Patrick spoke with a soft, sincere glint in his silver eyes. He watched the woman he’d met as a terrified and abandoned girl spring into confident action, using the skills she’d honed in her forced former profession to work the floor and pry additional honest coin from the pouches of thirsty male customers.

“Don’t go gettin any ideas, Patty; she’s helping me with inventory tonight,” Ulf warned with a wry smile. Patrick snorted and took a gulp from his stein.

“C’mon, now, you know I’d do right be yer staff, n’Gretta knows better’n most I’m a ‘big tipper’,” Patrick informed with a wink as he raised his forearm to brace for the playful slap he knew was likely coming. He leaned back with a chuckle at the familiar sting of a soft woman’s hand striking the hairy blue flesh of his muscular forearm.

“I’d punch yer lights out but I’m on the job,” Gretta-Mae loudly snarked, casting a quick glance to Ulf’s back before leaning in to whisper, “you’re lucky you’re cute,” and give Patrick warm kiss. In their very familiar and comfortable flirting, the friends didn’t notice a pair of hate-filled, ale-addled eyes bearing down on them. The human patron gulped down the burning, numbing drink at the sight of a pretty young wench lip-locked and being felt-up by the disgusting fiend in his vision.

“I’ll do it for you free of charge. Now claws off the staff or I’ll break’em,” Ulf grunted as he placed no fewer than 15 full steins of various brews and harder drinks atop the bar for the dwarven gaggle before wiping his brow. Patrick and Gretta-Mae pulled away, straightening garments and stray strands of hair at the returning barman’s dry words.

“Oy, wot’s this, ‘Beat on Ol’Patty Night?” Patrick shook his head and reached for his stein, which had become dangerously close to empty. The sound of a fresh-filled one being placed in front of him brought a happy flick to Patrick’s tail. 

“I’d knock you out for a slice of stale bread, Patty-boy.”

“Cheers, you ginger bastard.” Patrick lifted his stein in a toast before bringing it back to his azure lips.

The night livened up as the oil-starved lights flickered low. More libations were quickly consumed until several patrons could barely stand. They still managed to bay like happy hounds to the bard’s siren sing-alongs. Patrick was several steins in, himself, merrily swaying to the tune and content to tap his ebon claws atop the bar before a sobering sound hit his slightly pointed ears.

Gretta-Mae was never one to scream like a frightened maid, so whatever caused the sound to burst from her mouth must have come as quite a shock, Patrick managed to reason. He turned to see the half-elf wench near-surrounded by four human laborers who were so consumed by drink all pretense and manners were pissed away several pints ago. The boldest offender was the same human man who liberally bathed the tiefling and wench in his hateful gaze earlier in the night, and he seemed eager to show Gretta-Mae exactly what she’d been missing.

Patrick took a sip of his beer and watched as the men place their hands where they weren’t wanted despite Gretta’s repeated, stern protests. He spied her deft hand reaching for a rather large but well-disguised dagger tucked within the laces of her bodice. Patrick quickly turned to Ulf, who was near overwhelmed with orders before taking his drink with a sigh and quickly making his way to the group with a slight flick in his tail.

“S’cuse me, miss; sorry t’interrupt but, err, me meal’s takin a spell. Could ye go n’check on it? I’d be obliged, thanks,” Patrick gave a crooked, forced grin. His distraction was just enough for Gretta-Mae to quickly disengage with her job and the brutes’ entrails still secure. She gave him a thankful look before quickly padding towards the kitchen. Patrick gave a nod before turning to take his place back at the bar when he heard a snort and felt a something wet and weighty hit the back of his shirt.

“Stupid swivin’ devil. Go back to the hells where you came from,” the hateful human slurred, wiping his lips. Patrick paused and took a deep breath. Every instinct told him to knock the human’s teeth in, but business was booming and his good friend had only just finished replacing all of the furnishing from the last brawl, if his memory was still sound. He took another breath before taking a step towards the bar. The humans hurled more insults, some dulled by drink, others with words Patrick didn’t know. He did his best to focus on his drink, his friends, his cat — anything that would soothe his mind and temper. He may have managed a peaceful return to the bar had it not been for a sweaty hand roughly gripping his tail and pulling him backwards.

As if in one intentional stroke, Patrick closed the lid on his drinking stein, hooked his arm around to throw a haymaker, and struck the human square in the jaw with the metal vessel. Spittle, blood, and teeth flew from the man’s mouth as he released Patrick’s tail during his trip to the floor, hitting the side of his head on a table on the way. His fellow human laborers staggered to his defense, fists, knives and workman’s tools out. A few of the patrons nearby turned to watch the scene, numbly smiling at the potential entertainment. Patrick, bereft of any weapons other than his drinking stein and first-prize fists assumed a ready stance.

“Back off, boyos. Yer friend grabbed me tail all piss-drunk and ‘e got clocked; that’s all this’s gotta be,” Patty offered, moving his lips so that his fangs could be seen but remaining on guard. He offered a wordless apology to Ulfruss for the damage as he watched one of the brew-emboldened humans move to grab a chair. As it flew at Patrick’s head, he skillfully bobbed to one side before weaving back into his stance, allowing the chair to go crashing into a table full of fine food and drink. When the entire table rose in response the bard’s merry song was quickly overtaken by the sounds of a bar-room brawl.

No less than ten combatants were engaged in the melee, steel and wood being wielded by drunken dervishes as Patrick struggled to keep ahead of the wild blows. A few cheers for “Patty-Blue” came from the spectating crowd, a few having attended Patrick’s local back-alley bouts, as coins started being placed on favored victors.

He could hear Ulfruss curse over the sounds of battle as the barman hurried into the kitchen. Patrick ducked to avoid being hit on the side of the head by a table-leg before delivering a powerful punch to his attacker’s gut. He brought his tail around and caught someone on the side of the cheek, breaking the skin and leaving a deep gash. Patrick’s arms began to weigh heavy as the fight reached its zenith, his breath like dragon fire in his lungs. He felt a sharp pop of pain as someone managed to land a jab just below his left eye, narrowly missing the bridge of his nose. He staggered back but managed to block another blow with his drinking stein, breaking his attacker’s fingers with a loud crack.

Patrick resolved to go down fighting as tables were upturned and the fervor became so raucous that even the bonny bard, who had shifted into a rousing jig, saw fit to flee through an open window to the relative safety of the alley. Patrick soon found himself losing the brewed buffer that cushioned the next few blows to his chest and shoulder. His feet were like boulders, his thighs were as trembling twigs, and his tail began to kink up, sending shooting pains up the length of his back. One human managed to strike him in the back of the head with something blunt, sending him dazed and belly down on an emptied, still-standing table.

Prone and unable to lift his brew, Patrick began to say a little prayer to his chosen deity, the Platinum Dragon, and prepared for what could be a permanent knock-out. He closed his eyes and waited for what seemed like hours but nothing came. When he opened his eyes again, Patrick could see the familiar forms of Ulfruss and Gretta-Mae dealing with the brawling brutes with billy-club and daggers as needed. What was more, the noise had apparently attracted some of the city guard, who were quickly moving in to stop the brawl and haul off those who refused to comply.

Patrick let out a sigh of relief as the pain in all his various places became more apparent. He tried to lift himself up from the table, but his limbs seemingly found no purchase. A smile did find its way to his bruised and slightly bloodied lips as the drinking stein, despite becoming more a bludgeon than a beverage remained in his locked grip. A little flick of the wrist produced a heavy sloshing sound as, to Patrick’s delight, the cap of the stein was still shut tight.

“Platinum Scales be praised,” he coughed. As Patrick struggled to push open the lid for sweet, sweet succor, a stranger’s hand firmly came to rest atop his. Patrick managed to lift his head and steady his vision enough to see a serious, but beauteous face. The woman appeared human, with long chestnut hair and honey-brown eyes. She was dressed in some manner of elite warrior’s clothes, and was more than angelic in his devilish sight. The words “angel face” stumbled from his lips which seemingly made her take a step back. Though he could see her plush pink lips move to address him, her voice was muffled and drowned out by a strange ringing in his ears.

He perceived her attention shift to someplace behind him. A voice that sounded like Gretta-Mae was saying something in a frantic, pleading tone. Ulfruss’s voice came as well, muffled, but affirming whatever Gretta was saying. Honey eyes came to rest on silver, once more, as her serious look slowly softened into one mild amusement and pity. She moved to his side, speaking in a strong, assured tone as Ulfruss moved to his opposite side. The pair lifted him up and moved the punch-drunk tiefling to one of the few intact chairs as Gretta began tending to his wounds. They and a few of the guards were the only ones remaining, leaving Ulfruss and Gretta-Mae to begin picking up the pieces.

Patrick shook his head, his hearing slowly returning as he thirstily gulped the last of his beer, longing for more beyond the last drop. The angel-faced woman dismissed the last of her comrades and walked over to stand in front of the injured tiefling, clearing her throat before addressing him again.

“Are you coherent?” Patrick flinched, giving her a defensive look at her tone. The action seemed to have startled her, as she shifted to pull over a chair and sit beside him rather than loom. “Are you better; able to talk?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“The barman and his girl told me about what happened. You’re not in any trouble,” she paused and scanned the room and waited until the last of her men departed before speaking again, “What’s your name?”

“Who’s askin?” Patrick flinched at himself. “S-Sorry been a long day.”

“Not to worry. I’m Anne Marie, not Angel-face. I take it you’re not ‘Devil-man’ either?” She smirked.

“I am if ye want me t’be, Annie-girl. Name’s Patrick. What do I owe th’pleasure?” he asked, mind working to come up with alibis and aliases depending on what this law-woman was here to accuse him of. Anne Marie’s eyes focused on the sapphire pendant which survived the brawl and still hung pristine around Patrick’s neck. She moved a hand to gently touch it with an up-turned palm before looking him in the eye and silently demanding a truthful answer.

“Is this Alrick Osiander’s necklace?” She quietly asked. Patrick’s shaking hand dropped the drinking stein, letting it hit the floor with a loud, ringing chime. That was a name he kept with the deepest parts of his heart, one he hadn’t uttered or thought on for over fifteen summers. His bruised lips could carry no answer but his shoulders began to slightly shake. Anne Marie placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder with a smile, meeting his vision once more.

“I think you _are_ the blue, silver-eyed tiefling I’m looking for.”

\---


	3. The Redemption Arc-Angel

\---

A short human-looking woman dressed in a Paladin’s armor knelt beside the pristine river with a small sigh. The sight of her own face beside her lathered horse’s in the flowing water brought a look of loss to her rich features. Gone with her maiden years were her halo, brilliant gold eyes, and earthy, cinnamon-colored wings. What remained was, to many, as beauteous as any human ideal immortalized by an artist’s masterful hand, despite her 29th summer looming over the horizon. But reflected to its owner, the paladin found more commonality with the frothed steed in her appearance than what others claimed. Her look of defeat quickly flowed into one of determination has she cupped some of the cooling water and brought it to the back of her head.

“Keep it together, Anne. Sure, mother thinks you’re mad. Sure Deastok and Zadash…and Alfield _and_ Trostenwald — were all busts, but you’ll find him; he’s alive out there. You’ll save him and then you’ll be a hero worthy of wings…” she muttered to herself, allowing the cool water to fall over her long, wild chestnut hair. She closed her eyes and gathered her thoughts as the sound of the water dripping to the ground brought her back to that cold, rainy night.

Nothing in Anne Marie Constantine’s life was going as she designed it. Was she not the reason for her poverty-stricken family’s deliverance? Was not her very birth a miracle befitting only the most virtuous of Pelor’s devotees, she’d indignantly ask anything in earshot. She couldn’t recall a moment when someone didn’t extol her beauty, virtue, importance, and talent at every opportunity. From morning to night Anne enjoyed only the finest of everything, no deserving desire left unfulfilled, suffering no scoldings better befit for common children.

So then why, on Anne’s 16th name-day did her angelic guide deem the perfectly radiant teenager underserving of her heritage, stripping the young aasimar of that which made her truly shine. What followed was a far greater calamity than any other Exandria had ever known. Her admirers commented not on her many virtues but on her small stature, too-large attributes, unruly hair, annoying laugh, among other things. The many callers who would sell their soul without hesitation for the chance to court her angelic countenance began to think twice about looking her way. The arrangement her parents made for her betrothal to one of the most influential families in all the empire was delayed until viciously called off late into her elder years.

In the end, there was only one who stood by her in that state, one who was always there to lend an ear to her indignant tirades with a gracious smile-and-nod. Though the pair shared little in common other than being in the same social circles and then hastily promised to one another in their late twenties, Annie seemed to have found her first genuine friendship in the handsome, blue-eyed nobleman. He would share his hidden passions for mixing various teas, calligraphy and weaving, while she imparted some of her favorite poems from popular bards for discussion.

In their growing kinship, the tightly-woven tapestry of Anne’s folly began to fray, offering only a thread-bare peek into why she was languishing in perceived mediocrity. When he grew ill, she made it a point to be at his bedside when allowed. When news of his death reached Anne, her first thoughts were, ‘How could this happen to me? What am I going to do now?’ followed by a long pause and a cold, vile feeling in her spirit.

The memories made Anne cringe and reach for a larger portion of water to quickly dump over her head. She shivered as it ran under her shirt and down the spots on her back where her wings once were. Her mind traveled back to the night after her fiancé’s funeral. As she lay on her feather bed, clutching the warm scarf with little embroidered blue birds he’d made for her, Annie heard a tapping of pebbles at her window. The meeting that followed would spark hope after dealing with the dark days and emotions they set upon her.

There, obscured in an old black cloak was the Osiander family nanny, lovingly called “Nan-nan”.

Her tear-filled gaze had seen much in eighty summers of life. Despite her dedication to her charges, a mountain of coin to keep her own children comfortable allowed Nan-nan to put even the worst of abuses out of her line of sight, until recent events forcibly opened her eyes. What became of Nan-nan’s most beloved charge moved her to find the one who would love him best and confide everything.

Anne’s mind was gently brought back to the present as she felt a soft nudge on her shoulder and warm breath on the side of her neck. She opened her eyes to the present before moving her head to flip her hair back and giving the horse a little pat on its nose.

“We’ll find him, Clearwater. I know we will; we’ve got one solid lead, a solid lead…” she assured the unassuming steed. The closest Anne came to finding the “blue tiefling with silver eyes, and raven hair” that Nan-nan described was a two-summers old girl in Trostenwald. When the man of the house departed for work, the girl’s mother imparted that there was indeed a male tiefling fitting that description along with a long, faded scar on his left cheek living in a small back water to the east. While Anne’s fiancé bore no old scars, Nan-nan spoke of his twin bother bearing such a mark his father gave him during a particularly harsh beating. The woman insisted her ‘acquaintance’ was called Patrick, not Luciel.

Anne reached into one of Clearwater’s saddlebags for a snood, putting her hair up as best as the stretched out covering would allow before mounting up and continuing around the loch towards the town of Little River, where either blue tiefling hopefully awaited. From what the locals of Trostenwald were willing to impart, both well-heeled and thread-bare residents alike bespoke of Little River as an unusual pock mark in the region. While well off the beaten path, the town was a bustling merchant hub, because it was one of the few townships within the Empire that not only allowed the ‘uncommon folk’ but welcomed them to live in its ‘Down-Town’ district.

Anne smiled at the thought, noting how charitable the more fortunate ones of the affluent ‘Up-Town’ surely were to give such people a foothold when they’d be otherwise turned away or worse. When she reached the north-west gate, Anne spied a token force of two sleepy Crownsguard there to greet her. The elven guard gave her a lack-luster look before nodding and waving her through. The human guard gave Anne a suspicious glare, contemplating her barely-contained wavy hair, slightly pointed ears, and small stature, but her armor and well-attended steed quelled his misgivings.

Up-Town’s architecture appeared the same as any other Dwendalian town that enjoyed a bustling economy. The cobblestone streets were devoid of cracks or loose stones, the walk ways were clear of rubbish, and the citizenry seemed to go about their business with a spring in their step. A few elven passers by afforded Anne some directions to the town’s Crownsguard precinct and blessings with illuminated eyes. Conversely, more than a few humans, to her annoyance, gave Anne similar looks of doubt as the guard on the way in and uncomfortable silence.

She found an inviting-looking inn and hitching post, making use of both prior to beginning her investigation. Upon obtaining a room far too luxurious for the majority of the locals, Anne traded her dust-coated, traveling plate armor for a clean, stylish violet tunic and polished decorative armor set proudly adorned with sunny symbols of her faith. She combed through her tangled waves, still wet and smelling slightly of river water, and applied a sweet-smelling cream before stuffing it all back into her straining snood. Anne adjusted her bronze diadem with a sad smile as a pang of homesickness struck. The image of her mother’s plain, worried face reflected back at her as Anne took one last look in the mirror before departing.

She would have arrived at the Crownsguard precinct well before her lunch time, had it not been for a shrill voice cursing in indignation from the local library steps. Anne gasped and turned to see the scene of two library workers trying to sooth an elven woman dressed in a fine foreign gown and black robes adorned with white-embroidered symbols Anne had never seen before.

“This is an _outrage!_ How dare you treat me this way? My permission slip is genuine; I insist you stop this nonsense and allow me passage at once.” The raven-haired, grey-skinned woman firmly insisted with as much force as her aristocratic manner would allow. The half-elf and human workers tried further explain their decision, pointing out the clearly displayed sign that read ‘For Uptown Residents Only.’ This only seemed to stoke the woman’s temper as she crafted artisanal insults and hurled them well over the humble worker’s heads. Anne sighed, her anxious thoughts flowed forward to her destination but a small, devious smile came to her lips at the opportunity to potentially do a good deed. Anne straightened her snood before heel-turning towards the library steps.

“Excuse me, is aught amiss?” Anne asked with a smile as she approached the trio. The elven woman turned to give her an intense look of annoyance while the workers gave doe-eyed, relieved prayers to at the sight of the familiar symbols on her armor.

“Are you with the Crownsguard?” The elven woman flatly asked with a raised brow while intense, ice-blue eyes caused the approaching Anne to shiver in their scrutiny. Anne cleared her throat and warmed her resolve as her nose tilted slightly upwards.

“No, I am not my lady. I am a humble paladin of Pelor and it is my sworn duty to help those in need. My name is Anne Marie Constantine; what exactly has you so frazzled, if I may ask?” Anne asked earning her a huff and the slight tap of a boot

“ _Mirimm_ , Grimora Mirimm,” she paused as the weight of her name seemed to float away without impact on the paladin before begrudgingly continuing, “…and these two bumble-clods are denying me entry into the library. The other one didn’t have ‘the rule’ or the books I’m looking for and sent me here. ‘Residents Only’, the nerve!” Grimora crossed her arms and turned her piercing gaze back to the cowering common women.

“W-We’re sorry m’lady but them’s the rules. If you don’t ‘ave proof-a-residence we can’t let you in or the chief librarian will ‘ave our ‘ides and our jobs,” the sheepish human woman imparted with shame-filled eyes firmly fixed on her feet. The half-elf’s tone did not convey as much pity as resentment.

“You get it now? We can’t let you in and that’s that. Sorry, but you’ll have to settle on whatever the Down-Town library has,” she huffed. Their words were as kindling to Grimora’s raging temper. She clenched her hand into a fist as not to reach for her decorated crook. Anne lifted her hands to try and quell the fires of conflict before they spread further.

“Hold, there may be a way around this. You all just need written permission for her to enter, proof of residency — well what about a letter from the Crownsguard, would that suffice?”

“I already have that!” Grimora informed as she pulled a piece of hastily-written parchment with official letterhead clearly inked on its top, “I’ve been trying to wring sense into these two all day and its not even time for elevenses!” Grimora shouted, in lament of not taking in more tea and morning meal before embarking on her current farce.

“Ma’am I’m going to ask you to calm down a moment,” Anne firmly spoke before turning a gentle eye to the two workers, “Would it be possible to summon the head librarian and explain the situation? I’m confident we can all come to an equitable arrangement,” Anne offered. The two library workers gave one another worried but slightly yielding looks.

“W-Well maybe we can make an exception—“

“An exception, you want to make an exception NOW? After all the back-and-forth, wasting my time! Why, because _she_ has the right symbols on her armor or is your ‘dedication to the rules’ so pathetic you’d bend for a pretty aasimar in shining armor?”

“She’s an aasimar!?” The human blurted with horror in her eyes earning her a look from her half-elf co-worker as if the fact was obvious, “F-Forgive me your grace? Gracefulness — holiness!” She groveled. Anne shook her head.

“No need for that. Though, it occurs to me, why doesn’t Lady Grimora give you the list of books she needs and you fetch them for her. Surely you can so as much? That way she gets the books she needs, the head librarian isn’t disturbed and you two don’t have break the rules. Does that seem fair?” Anne asked, feeling the icy gaze on her person threaten to paralyze her. The half-elf and human looked to one another with a nod.

“Yeah, that sounds good yer holiness,” the human turned and impatiently waited for Grimora’s grateful words of thanks and speedy quill but neither appeared. Instead Grimora’s cold eyes betrayed her warm smile as a tone dripping with spite escaped her sharp lips.

“Adequate? Yes. Fair? Debatable,” Grimora pulled another, well-worn piece of parchment from her robes and unfolded it before handing it to the half elf. She addressed the woman with a voice that seemed more like a dagger to the ribs than simple instruction.

“The tomes are very old and fragile. Do take care or the pages are like to turn to dust. Don’t want to anger the head librarian by destroying an age of knowledge, do we?” She smirked in satisfaction as the pride-wounded workers shuffled like scolded hound into the library to fetch their quarry. Anne gave a self-satisfied smile and a little bow.

“If that is all, I bid you a wonderful day my lady. May Pelor’s light sh—“

“Save your blessings for those in want of it. I pray you never encounter someone else capable of seeing…what is no longer there,” Grimora turned and gave Anne a knowing look and a cool smile. Anne froze for a moment in shock before giving a crestfallen, confused nod and retreating towards the precinct. To add injury to insult, her straining snood snapped, sending her wild chestnut hair flying in all directions.

“No good deed goes unpunished,” she muttered as her defensive mind brought her fully attention back to why she was there in the first place: follow the lead and find the blue tiefling.

~*~

While Anne balked at the notion of needing an armored escort when traveling to down-town, she was glad to have the manpower when all hell broke loose at the Little River Tavern. Anne had traveled the width and breadth of the downtown area, each person she stopped to question not only knew the blue tiefling called Patrick, but had many a colorful story to share in place of any useful information. When she finally made her way to his supposed favorite tavern it was in a state of pure chaos. She didn’t have long to wait for order to be restored, as the guards who accompanied her ended the violence and dragged the drunkards out as easily as carrying bails of sodden hay from a barn.

When the drunken dross was finally cleared of the tavern, Anne spied her quarry at last. The storied Patrick was sprawled belly-down on a table, punch-drunk but smiling at something in his grip. As Anne approached she heard a slurred prayer to the platinum dragon drawl from his swollen lips before he moved a bruised, clearly-broken thumb to press down on the drinking stein’s lid. She gasped and instinctually clasped her hand atop his, earning her a confused look from a face that sent a radiant heat through her very being.

Though her fiancé worshipped Bahamut as well, what met her sight was not his soft boyish looks in blue, but the handsome face of a man who had lived a hard life but played even harder to make up for it. Their attentions smoldered for only a moment before honey-brown eyes met silver and sparked a strange, warm sensation in Anne’s breast. While Anne’s ample words abandoned her, Patrick had two for her, as the airy words “Angel-face” softly flew from his soft-looking but bloodied lips. Anne struggled to compose herself and succeeded in softly blurting “a-am not!”

Anne’s cloudy thoughts were brought back into focus by a pleading woman’s voice addressing her from behind where Patrick lay.

“Please, ma’am mercy; he didn’t do anything wrong,” a pretty half-elf wench begged with fearful tears in her eyes. “Some drunken bastards were putting their hands on me, going down a really bad road. He distracted them so I could leave without cutting them and they attacked him, I know it!”

“You know or you saw?” Anne asked in a sharper tone than she intended, causing more tears to stream down the wenches panic-stricken face. Before she could reword her question, the barman firmly affirmed the girl’s statement.

“Aye, I was distracted a bit but I saw the bastard pull Patty’s tail un-provoked. I’m the owner here, you can trust my word if you won’t take hers,” he implored. Anne looked to the battered man, their eyes meeting once more. Anne was about to warmly offer words of praise or perhaps instruct Patrick to thank his god once more, when Grimora’s icy tone blew through her mind with the words, “Save your blessings for those in want of it.” Anne shivered for a moment before the warmth of his azure company returned. She wordlessly spoke with her gaze, hoping to convey a sense of pity and warm admiration before moving to his side.

“Of course. Let’s get him up and looked after?” Anne asked the owner who nodded and moved to Patrick’s opposite side. The pair lifted him up and moved the ailing tiefling to one of the few intact chairs. The wench began tending to his wounds with too-dry salves, faded cloth, and trembling hands.

“Hey, I um, think your boss needs some help. Leave this one to me? I promise I won’t harm him,” she spoke with enough authenticity to stay the wench’s hand, as she shakily stood to help the owner in his cleanup efforts. Anne closed her eyes and entreated her god, placing a hand on Patrick’s. A warm glow engulfed them both as his wounds and mind seemingly began to mend. As his senses returned, Anne moved to open the lid to his drinking stein, allowing the groggy man to gulp its contents uninhibited before being called away by the guards.

She dismissed them with with a bit of annoyance before returning to the source of the redness on her cheeks. She stood as tall and with a breath that flattened her stomach she barked: “Are you coherent?” Anne cursed herself for the dogged remark, heart sinking at the sight of the man flinching and tail curling around himself defensively. Bumbling panic caused Anne to pull a wobbly, three-legged chair over to sit beside him lest her shaking knees betray her.

“Are you better; able to talk?” Anne asked, desperate to even-out her shaking voice.

“Y-Yeah,” his smokey, husky tone sent another wave of warmth through her.

“T-The barman and his girl told me about what happened. You’re not in any trouble,” she paused and scanned the room and waited until the last of her men departed before speaking again, “What’s your name?”

“Who’s askin?,” the man wearily asked. Anne’s face must have conveyed the mixed feelings of uncertainty and clumsy attraction within as he quickly added: “S-Sorry been a long day.”

“Not to worry. I’m Anne Marie, not Angel-face. I take it you’re not ‘Devil-man’ either?” She forcefully smirked, hoping the act would place a confident mask on her cumbersome attempt at humor.

“I am if ye want me t’be, Annie-girl. Name’s Patrick. What do I owe th’pleasure?” he asked, as smooth as Anne’s own attempts were slipshod. She smiled at the words ‘Annie-girl’ and tried to come up with a meaningful response when her eyes caught a glimpse of something sparkling and sapphire on his very hairy chest. There, around a rough-leather string was a sapphire stone matching the description of the one described by Nan-nan. Annie’s heart was racing, her mind tumbling the thought of asking the question that was ripe to fall from her trembling lips. She moved a hand to gently touch the stone within an up-turned palm before looking him in the eye and silently pleading for a truthful answer.

“Is this Alrick Osiander’s necklace?” She quietly asked. Patrick’s shaking hand dropped the drinking stein, letting it hit the floor with a loud, ringing chime. All confidence and smoothness were roughly stripped from his features at the question, leaving only panic and pain in its wake. His sensual silver eyes were locked as if staring into another time and place. She could see his shoulders, tail and knees begin to shake. His reaction caused something with Annie to break loose and tumble forth, as a thousand successive panicked, self-flagellating thoughts sped along with no seeming destination.

She closed her eyes and tried to take deep breaths, but the thoughts and panic within only worsened. She opened her eyes and reached out, thoughts focusing on the person in front of her, and allowed her touch to convey what her words couldn’t. Their eyes met again, bringing a sense of calm within the storm of feelings between them. Annie broke the silence to offer an affirmation, one that seemed to fully bring Patrick back from the brink and return a smile to his face.

“I think you _are_ the blue, silver-eyed tiefling I’m looking for.”

“S’that so? Not often I get Up-Town girls come callin’, specially not fully dressed,” Patrick winked. Annie crossed her arms with a small huff, unable to quell the fire in her cheeks but attempted it all the same. Patrick’s mischievous smile visibly faded from Annie’s sight as things grew more serious between them once more. “…s-so how do you know Alrick, why do ye know about ‘is necklace?”

Annie felt a pang of guilt in her chest as the thought of not informing the handsome tiefling in her company of her engagement did cross and linger in her mind. She looked away for a moment before replying.

“Its a long story I’ll try to keep short but, I am — err — was his fiancé. Alrick became very sick and as far as anyone knows, he d-died. There was a funeral and everything and…” Anne felt tears well up in her eyes as her throat began to quiver, the absurdity of her quest finally making itself manifest as she began saying it all out loud. “…look I-I know you only just met me and this will seem stupid to you, Pelor knows mother thought so, but his family nanny came to me in secret. She told me Alrick is alive and that his father cast him out and the funeral was to ‘preserve the family legacy’ or some rot.”

“…sounds like me lord father,” Patrick bitterly added with a long, hard flick of his tail. Annie nodded.

“As for the stone, I know Alrick gave it to his twin, a blue tiefling with silver eyes, raven hair, and a nasty scar on his cheek call Lu—“

“Please don’t say that name t’me,” Patrick quickly spat as if fighting back a rage-filled bile. Annie slowly nodded as his visage turned curious. “‘Twin?’ Nan-nan must be going senile if she told ye that, bless ‘er. Nah, Alrick’s me ‘alf brother — all human like father,” Patrick sadly asserted. Annie wiped the tears from her cheeks, shook her head and gave him a significant look.

“If it's all true and your brother _is_ alive, then he is your twin and a tiefling as well,” Annie sighed. “As I said, I’m likely chasing ghosts but if there is even a wisp of a chance of finding him alive, I’ll travel to the ends of the world if I have to. After all he’s done for me, I owe him that much…” Anne sighed in frustration and looked away. It all sounded so preposterous in her own ears, she cursed herself for being such a self-important fool. Was she really taking a nearly-century’s old human at her word, traveling hither and yon on a fantasy of her own making? And for what — so she can be the hero and return to her former glory? The notion turned her stomach. Alrick was likely dead as his family claimed, his quick burial a mercy to his grieving father. Her self-deprecating thoughts would have continued on for an age had a musky blue hand not found his way to hers.

“Hey, hey, Annie-girl, look at me,” Patrick gently implored. Annie’s assaulting mind was instantly disarmed, as she no reason not to answer his soothing call. “Th’lad’s lucky to ‘ave a girl like you in ‘is corner. S’the kinda thing the songs are made of, wot yer doin. Ye been goin at it alone all this time?”

“Yes,” She sighed.

“Well I’m of a mind t’help ye. Me big bruv was always looking after me, least I can do is look after ‘is ‘friend’ fer a spell. S’not like I got anything goin on round ‘ere really…” Patrick motioned to the still disheveled tavern as the owner commented on how he could have something going on: helping clean up the mess he helped make. The banter that followed brought a smile and genuine laugh to Annie’s lips.

“You know, you’re taking all of this oddly well,” Annie remarked with a coyer smile slowly finding its way to her face.

“Well tell it all t’me again, from th’top, when I’m sober — say tomorrow, right ‘ere over breakfast? When Ulf over there lets me in ‘is kitchen I make a MEAN berry tart,” Patrick smoothly offered with a flick of his tail.

“He ain’t lying,” the wench added while attempting to put a table back together.

“Bring enough for all of us to make up for this mess,” Ulf grunted and swept up more of the spilled food and broken bits of wood. Annie could see what they were trying to do, and in the face of his warm smile and comely companions, she found herself unable to find a reason to decline.

“Make them blueberry-cinnamon and it’s a date.”

\---


	4. An Oleander by Any Other Name…

\---

A drow gentleman dressed in flamboyant garb marking him as a bard sat alone at a table with two chairs.

The scent of salt on the breeze was not unknown to him, its gentle caress upon his charcoal-grey skin was a welcome relief after spending weeks upon the nauseating waves only to find himself traveling through buggy jungles, drying deserts, and humid forests while about business. Loquacious ladies slowed their steps when passing the handsome drow with pristine snowy locks framing his dark features like a crescent moon in their maiden eyes. He appeared well-mannered in every graceful movement, despite what Dwendalian pro-war pamphlets would have them believe, seemingly waiting on someone and no one in particular. What was more remarkable to the locals of Nicodranas was how brazenly he carried himself, openly enjoying a light breakfast within a coastal town just a stone’s throw away from the Dwendalian Empire’s Wuyun Gates.

Though passers by saw any number of mysterious things in his beguiling rose-pink eyes, the scent of milked tea and fresh-baked cocoa bread brought a pang of silent, resounding sorrow from the deepest parts of his being. The thought of milk ruining perfectly good tea turned his stomach and he was far fonder of elderberry spread and butter on toast. But the bard with the moon-beam face remembered _her_ favorites and partook even if they would never share a morning meal ever again.

When only crumbs remained and his tepid tea mostly drained, the bard’s attention and nostalgic flavors on his tongue began to ebb. His eyes rested on a little fly helping itself to a small, sweet morsel as it faded into the scenes replaying in his head. He may have affixed his rose-tinted vision on his 20 lifetimes of memory, had a flash of dark fabric and icy blue eyes pulled him from the depths and back into the present.

“Fancy meeting you here ‘Simone Oleander’, or do you prefer ‘Moonbow of the Kryn’ now? You didn’t come all this way just to mingle with the penny-stinkards, surely?” The elven woman with light-grey skin and soft, ebon locks smirked.

“Just ‘Simone’ is fine. Always a pleasure, Grimora,” Simone corrected motioning for the approaching woman to sit before taking off his brimmed-and-feathered chapeau. Grimora gave him a scolding look as the bard made no motion to rise and pull the chair out for her before gracefully and graciously taking a seat.

“‘What’s in a name?’ I see this place has done little to tarnish your impeccable manners, my lord. Your family must be so proud.” Grimora straitened in her seat, eyeing the buzzing little flies now congregating on Simone’s leftovers.

“A name, at best, is of little use to us here and at worst would…draw unnecessary attention.” Simone imparted with a tone that would sound less a threat as a simple statement in any other set of ears than Grimora’s. She cleared her throat with a nod.

“As you say. Did you just arrive?”

“No, I’ve had a bit of time to wander hither and yon before my grand performance; they’re hosting a festival and my troupe was invited. If you’re on mission out here, who’s wrath did you incur this time?” He smirked and motioned to a cafe employee for a menu. Grimora gave an indigent huff before crossing her arms and averting her icy gaze.

“You make too many assumptions. Do you honestly think these simple heathens have it in them to be illuminated by our faith?” Grimora asked as she curtly accepted a dirty look and menu from the cafe employee. When the worker was out of earshot, Simone gave Grimora a probing look.

“Other business then?” 

“Mayhap. I know _you_ certainly can’t be stirred to court without a royal mandate, let alone come all this way for a folk-festival. Why are you really here?”

“You walk the path to umavi in your own way; I walk mine; simple as that,” Simone’s tone shifted from dismissive to delightful as the worker returned to take their order: a pot of herbal tea and simple scones. Grimora pursed her lips and gave the bard across from her a suspicious look.

“Hoping noshing on my favorites will buy my silence? Nothing is ever simple with you.”

“You see through me, as always,” Simone sighed with a small chuckle.

“Please, I might have taken offense at your lack of effort had my breakfast had not been so generously taken care of,” Grimora smiled with the sweetness of a viper. What sounded like an honest laugh passed through Simone’s lips.

“How many lives have we done this now? What am I to do with you?” Simone leaned forward to place his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his folded hands. Grimora retorted before her calculating mind could stop her whipping, vicious wit.

“It’s not my fault you have such a fondness for half-breeds—” Grimora froze at her words. Her frightened gaze turned fully to the man across from her.Nothing flickered behind Simone’s eyes. Simone’s smiling lips did not so much as twitch, and the warm, friendly expression betrayed no hint of guile. Whether his true feelings bore anger or anguish at her words, whether he was plotting her demise or his repertoire for the festival, Simone’s visage revealed naught. This was but one of countless times Grimora’s true-sight failed her in Simone’s presence and what she could not see sent a bolt of terror through her.

“I-I’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” she quickly offered with a slight blush.

“Its fine, though I would greatly appreciate it if we could drop this conversation,” Simone requested with a warm, soothing tone that made her shiver.

The sensation was as intense as it was the first time she’d felt his gentle, waxing- impenetrable vision upon her. Though the memories of the consecuted were often little more than intense feelings or shadow of images just out of sight, Grimora remembered her fondness for the nobleman of her sixth life, and the tragic circumstances that lead to the loss of her one and only romantic foray.

The timing of the cafe worker couldn’t be more apt, as the slight reprieve of their order’s delivery afforded Grimora time to recover from her thoughts to get back on balance. She cleared her throat and mind.

“Of course, of course…so how is that story you were writing coming along, or was it a song?”

“A ballad, so you’re right on both accounts,” Simone paused to brush a long strand of loose hair behind his shoulder, “To answer your question: it is the reason I’m here.”

“Oh, I see, a change of scenery— a fresh perspective for your lives’ work. Well, may the light of the Luxon shine brightly within you,” Grimora’s slightly shaking tone was steadied by the hot, floral tea flowing into the pit of her stomach.

“Your blessings are appreciated. This life will mark the last quatrain, thankfully. It’s a rather bloated work already.”

“You never give that voice of yours its due. Still, your lute sings sweeter than most, so I can understand wanting to let her have the stage,” she gave the sincere compliment before taking a bite of scone and shooing some flies away. She seemed to hesitate a moment before icy eyes met pale rose. “Have you given any thought to the rumors?”

“Hmm? There are many rumors at court. Is there one in particular I should be aware of?” Simone asked with a raised brow, finally taking up his tea. Grimora hesitated, her icy eyes hoping to catch a glimmer through a slipped guard, but spied none. She gave a soft sigh before continuing just above a whisper.

“There are rumors at court that there could be a Luxon Beacon here in the west. It is likely just talk but…well, what if it isn’t? Tis interesting timing with an armistice and both of us being here, wouldn’t you say? Do you think your soul-journe may be to uncover the truth?”

“Who can say? Honestly, I’m just looking forward to the festival. Old favorites for new ears; what can make a bard happier?”

“I could think of a few things, but you never were the sort to stray, were you?” Grimora carefully spoke. Simone’s only answer was the slight slurp of his lips taking in tea. “Well, if I uncover anything, I shall be sure to take all due credit.”

“As you rightfully should. Well as nice as it is to see you, I fear our meeting must be cut short. I’ve an appointment with a wizard about a crate of curios. Do take care of yourself,” Simone stood before gracefully donning his chapeau and leaving enough coin to both cover the meal and a rather sizable tip. Before Grimora could offer words of protest or passing, Simone was gone, leaving her with crumbs, flies, and a feeling of foreboding.

“What are you up to?”

~*~

“Oh what a lovely scene — former lovers of lives’ past meet again under mysterious circumstances, unaware of what lurks nearby: a specter of tragedy, looming and listening, waiting for the moment the couple’s eyes should meet again in romance and her arduous ordeal to be at its end—”

“Would you shut it?!” an angry voice hissed aloud to one that could only be heard within the confines of her own mind. “Please, for five swivin minutes…”

“Hmph, that you’d speak to me that way…you’re lucky I have such lovely entertainment. Trying another go at pairing them up? You REALLY should consider your other options if you want to dissolve our pact.” The voice smugly purred in the woman’s mind again, its tone far more like a pouty maiden than an eternal being of calculating power. The small figure crouching behind the cafe building, cloaked in crimson and shadow, straining to listen over her patron’s incessant narration. A sad shine came to her sky-blue eyes and the sensation tainted the otherwise sweet smile on her small pink lips.

“No. He’s still choking down that breakfast…I tried ‘Option One’ once; you know how well that went, and I’ll never give you the satisfaction of the others,” the woman replied with her mind’s voice which held no little contempt and annoyance for her patron’s unwanted presence.

“Oh, yes, your most spectacular failure. The drama was delightful; such passion, such heartbreak! You were so, so close to curtain-call too. 20th life’s the charm?” the voice offered with a small, amused hum.

“Yes well, joke’s on you.” The woman outwardly smirked as she overheard who could only be her former mistress reborn speak about the potentiality for a Luxon Beacon to be hidden somewhere in the Dwendalian Empire. “If _she’s_ on the case I may actually have a way out of this.”

“Oh, do tell?”

“As if. I’ll just have to leave you in suspense.”

“Ahh, well I look forward to it then. In the meantime can we PLEASE go shopping? This place is simply lousy with jewelry shops and fresh fashion. These rags are SO four centuries ago. I can’t have my leading lady looking like an under-study for her big moment…” the patron lamented, shuttering slightly within its sheath. The woman brought a quick hand to her shattered breastbone where the Hexblade made its home.

“ _Please_ don’t do that,” the cloaked woman said with a sickly tone, far louder then intended. Her sharp eyes quickly cut back to the scene just in time to find the bard gone and her former employer sitting alone with her tea. The skulking woman felt a pair of truth-seeing eyes drift her way, causing the cloaked figure to dart behind the corner and press her thin back flat to the wall. The woman held her breath for a moment, reaching for the hilt of the hexblade with trembling fingers. When she mustered the courage to peek around the corner again, all that was left of the meeting were empty table settings. The woman let out a relieved whistle.

“Lucky break, that. Swore Grim would have seen me with that damnable vision of hers,” she muttered and quickly departed before her presence might yet be discerned.

“Worried she’ll take another crack at you?”

“Wouldn’t blame her if she did,” the woman sighed as she attempted to walk in the direction of Nicodranas’ northern pass, away from the trade districts. Her steps were stayed when, once again, the hexblade jostled in her breast.

“Damn it; cut that out!”

“I SAID I want to go shopping. Honestly, Mel, if I wasn’t speaking to you through our connection I’d swear you’d need your little knife-ears cleaned! Your precious bard doesn’t know we’re here and I have more important things to do at the moment than try to end the show early,” the patron huffed. The half-elf woman called ‘Mel’ growled low in annoyance.

“If you’re going to waste my time can I at least put on some bloody trousers?” Mel lamented motioning to the lavish and princess-worthy red gown beneath her cloak.

“Again with the trousers. You should know better than to ask me that. Now, bring us to a jewelry shop, this cloak is far too plain. We should have the claps changed outand bedazzled and —OH! We could get your ears pierced. Think of how stunning you’ll look during your big moment with fire opals encased in gold accents!” the patron gleefully spoke as the hexblade slightly bounced in its sheath. Though her current body appear to be in the bloom of maidenhood, Mel wore an expression that befit her tired existence.

As Mel’s reluctant steps brought her back towards frivolous financial ruination, she let her attention slip from her patron’s incessant musings to no one and nowhere in particular. Though the hopelessness of her situation was like a red ribbon adorning her neck, the constant threat of choking in its soft grip no longer seemed to motivate her to reach for deliverance. No matter where she was reborn, into which family or station, her patron always found her before her beloved could, and so the show went on and on, in an endless call for encores. Mel did not dare hope that her patron would bore of her performance, her stagecraft being the reason she was allowed consecution in the first place.

Her eyes dully scanned the trinkets and accessories, trying her best to tune out her patron’s melodic musings over matching fabrics, until she caught sight of something oddly familiar. The little trinket brought a profound warmth to her breast, completely overtaking the numbness that was her constant companion. A rosy tint came to her pale freckled cheeks as she picked up the pendant to inspect it. Mel fought back tears as faded memories came of a time before her single worst decision put a chokehold on the rest of her lives. The image of him, bright-eyed and open, falling to his knees with hands outstretched, something small and golden in his palms. The sound of his shaking voice as words obscured but never forgotten were imparted and the elation in his very being at her response.

She freely inspected the little oleander flower rose, finding to her delight that there was a rose quartz in the center of its petals. A genuine smile came to her lips as the hopeless red ribbon seemed to loosen, if only for a moment.

“…you can’t mix reds, you know. Pinkish-red and orange-red together are a no-no. Although, an accent in a cool color might be nice. Has something FINALLY caught your eye? Let me see! Oh, what a cute little pendant; not too over-stated with some nice accents. Have you finally embraced your feminine side or…? Oh I see. How very interesting. It's been some time since I’ve felt this in you, Melia darling. This will be veryentertaining!” Mel’s patron chirped in a way only a maiden could muster. Mel’s eyes rested on the trinket again, committing it and the sensation of burning boldness to memory should her final gambit fail.

“What must be, will be.”

\---


	5. Of Festivals, Fatalities, and Fate

\--

Patrick sighed as the sensation of a mild sweat coating his still-tender, bruised flesh made him want to leap into the nearest puddle. He gave a groan while adjusting his small, over-stuffed travel pack to the opposite shoulder for at least the tenth time, casting longing looks to the sheltering tree line.

With the chance of being reunited with his childhood hero and assurances from his friends that “his girls” and “baby kitty Blinkie boy” would be looked after, Patrick packed his meager belongings and set out with his new comely companion to points unknown. He looked to Annie, astride Clearwater’s sturdy back in her travel armor, artfully-crafted hammer and shield ready for any trouble on their path forward. She offered a shrug and scolding look in response to Patrick’s whining.

“You could have just ridden with me, you know; plenty of room, even with my shield,” Annie informed, motioning to the bare saddle space at her rear. Patrick shook his head and adjusted the worn strap holding the metal-topped branch barely recognizable as a lance to his back and cast an uneasy look to Clearwater. The mundane but imposing steed with chiseled muscles and finger-sheering teeth seemed oblivious to his affect on the diminutive tiefling, as skull-crushing hooves gently carried his mistress and her accruements along the southern road.

“N-Nah, it’s all good. Walkin's good fer yer lungs, n’wot not. So where are we ‘eadin anyway?”

“Well, I’ve checked every dwelling and ditch between Deastok and Little River, and the only word on a ‘blue-skinned tiefling with raven hair and silver eyes’ was of you and a little girl in Trostenwald—”

“Y’mean Socks? Did ye see her? Is she doin’ good?” Patrick asked with a hint of hopeful desperation in his tone. His tired face suddenly went bright with interest and attention. Annie’s words faltered as she quickly worked to gather them again.

“Y-Yes? Her mother’s the one who sent me to Little River. I assume you two are, um…‘acquainted?’” Annie carefully asked, causing a sad little laugh from Patrick’s dimming smile.

“Well, yeah, the girl’s mine, if ye couldn’t tell. Me and ‘er mum didn’t really get on, and when she met ‘er fella they decided it wouldn’t be good for me t’come ‘round no more. I weren’t ‘avin it but, well, bastard throws a mean lightnin’ bolt; not much I could do to that,” Patrick informed, averting his pain-drenched gaze with an empty smile and a lackluster shrug. Annie gave him an exaggerated, incredulous expression and an attempt at a jest.

“And you named her…‘Socks?'”

“No, a’course not — s’just a nickname coz th’markings on ‘er cute ‘lil legs look like knee-socks. Rosemarie’s ‘er proper name,” Patrick informed, pridefully smiling at choosing a sensible name for his little flower. His look of achievement quickly wilted at the barely-concealed look of amusement blooming on Annie’s face. “Wot? Wot’s wrong wiv ‘Rosemarie?’”

“N-Nothing its just, you know, she’s— wouldn’t ‘Bluebell’ have been a better fit?”

“A blue tiefling can’t be called ‘Rose?’ Come on now,” Patrick emphatically said with a grumpy wag of his tail. Annie’s expression softened as she gave an apologetic nod.

“No, you’re right, its a lovely name,” Annie informed as they shared a small but light-hearted laugh. “She was hail and healthy from what I could tell, if not a little bit naughty. Claws caught in the cookie jar, if I heard right.”

“Hah! That’s me girl,” Patrick chuckled, a sad glint in his expression remaining persistent despite the relieving news. He used the shifting of his pack and adjusting the strap keeping his lance on his back to muster a more convincing smile.

“To answer your other question, the next stop will be a town along the coast, past the Wuyun Gorge; ‘Nicodranas’ I believe. I learned of a festival being held there in the next few days that’s supposed to draw all sorts of folk. Hopefully someone will provide us a lead on your brother…”

“We stoppin’ at all before we get to th’gate? Gettin peckish,” Patrick asked with a tired huff. Annie rolled her eyes.

“We ate before we left! Ugh, I think I still have some leftover tarts somewhere, hold on…” Annie grumbled as she shifted to rummage through one of Clearwater’s saddlebags. There was a small silence between them before an errant thought passed through Patrick’s lips.

“Bet we ain’t much alike are we, me brother’n me,” he mused aloud without realizing, only to be surprised with a response.

“It’s not a bad thing…” Annie spoke, eyes softening at the thought of the infernal, beer-swilling, bar room brawler beside her gushing like a beaming maiden about his beloved daughter, and gave him a reassuring smile. It was then that she felt her steed shudder. Clearwater’s rhythmic progression skipped a few beats as the horse’s hooves slowed to a stop. The sound of rustling and the hint of shadows in Patrick’s keen silver sight caused him to reach for his lance.

“I think we’ve got company,” Patrick quietly spoke. Shadows came rustling from either sides of the tree-line, revealing themselves as humans in garb marking them as highwayman. The men appeared to brandish mundane instruments of robbery, in Patrick’s sight, but the smirking tiefling noted none among the six wore a magician’s robes or carried a cleric’s crook. “Afternoon, boys. I ‘ope this is important. Yer coming between me and me food,” Patrick informed as he swung the lance at his back into his deft claws. His words and exaggerated, feral movements diverted the highwaymen’s attention long enough for Annie to dismount and join him with hammer and shield at the ready.

“That’s enough, devil; we ain’t afraid of your kind. Hand over yer goods, ma’am, and quickly; we’ll let ye pass and off this fiend as a favor,” a highwayman demanded.

“This is your only warning. Get out of our way or _we_ will remove you.” Annie gave an annoyed huff and shifted into her disciplined combat stance. While Patrick’s own posture was somewhat sloppy and improvised in comparison to the trained paladin, his lance seemed no less an extension of his grip. One of the men, clearly out of patience, took a step forward with his club at the ready. By his lead, the melee began, the sounds of steel striking steel ringing out along the well-traveled road.

Despite still suffering from sore muscles and tender bruises, Patrick gave as good as what the highwaymen had to offer.

With the aid of what passed as a proper weapon, rather than something he picked up on the tavern floor, Patrick was able to quickly gain leverage over two men with much shorter reach. He made quick work of one, sending him to the ground with a lump on his crown while knocking the wind from the other with the butt of his lance, like he’d done many a time with a table leg or chair at the pub. A third man managed to close the gap, sticking him in the leg with a dagger. Patrick’s grunting yelp alerted Annie to his predicament, hastening her own hammer upon those daring to strike a lady.

While what blows that landed did sting through her sturdy plate armor, it did little to slow her swift shield and swifter hammer. She struck one man with all her unreserved might beneath the chin with her shield, sending him backwards. He appeared stunned, but managed to remain on his feet. Annie caught sight of the man with the dagger as he pulled it from Patrick’s leg before shoving it in again. The tiefling delivered a twisting blow to the man’s midsection with the shaft of his lance, but it did not stop the attacker from pulling the dagger out and bringing it to Patrick’s hip.

“Patrick!” Annie shouted as she whipped her hammer around with reckless abandon and caught another man in the knee, shattering it and sending him screaming to the ground. Reacting without thinking, she rushed to Patrick’s side with the two remaining men at closing in at her back. Annie charged the man with the dagger and with all her might, bashed him in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground and out cold. Patrick’s look of gratitude to his rescuer turned to horror as the two highwayman still standing were about to bring their weapons down on Annie’s head.

Before he could give a warning, the glint of armor and a booming neigh bellowed through the scene before two massive rear legs arched back and struck one of the two men with terrible force, sending him crashing into the other, and both to the ground.

The sound of pained screams and cracking bones caused a shiver to run from Patrick’s spine to the tip of his tail, until with another stomp and crunch, the two men were silenced for good. The one remaining man, who was merely winded by Patrick’s blows, looked to the gore before him before turning and limping as fast as he could back into the tree line, leaving his comrades to their fate.

With an affirming snort, Clearwater walked to his mistress’s side, nuzzling her gently before bringing his probing mouth down to lightly lip at some of Patrick’s hair.

“G-Good boy,” Patrick winced as his vision began to double.

“Hold still, let me get a look at you. Excuse me,” Annie grunted as she undid the laces on the front his leather trousers and pulled then down only as far as she needed to address the dire-looking wound on his hip. “Not a peep! Now hold still; this one’s deep.”

Annie closed her eyes and concentrated, much as she did after the pub-brawl. A soft golden light beamed from within and quickly traveled from her hands to Patrick’s wounds, which knitted and closed at her touch. While the dizziness from the bloodshed persisted, Patrick found his legs and torso to be as if they were never cut as Annie did-up his trouser laces and helped him to his feet.

“I think I wanna ride th’pony now,” Patrick breathlessly spoke, stepping over one of the broken highwaymen and towards the awaiting Clearwater. Annie gave an approving nod before taking Patrick’s lance, pack, and her shield and securing them to the rear of Clearwater’s saddle. When both their belongings and Patrick were secure, Annie said a prayer for the departed and called upon Pelor to send the remaining injured help before mounting up.

“Let’s get moving. When we get to the gate…you can have a full ration with your leftover tarts.”

“And beer when we get to the festival?” He hopefully asked as he quickly threw his arms around Annie’s wast when Clearwater began galloping down the southern road. Annie smirked at the action with a small laugh.

“A whole barrel, on me.”

~*~

If H’aalyek’s eyes could spin, they would be as sparkling pinwheels in the constant flow of colorful activity that passed through them. It was the first time the young, osprey-like aarakocra had rode the winds so far his secluded village within the Cyrios Mountains, let alone venturing to a far-away port town full of people. There were street performers of all artistic make, vendors selling shiny objects, and food with scents that bore an almost divine pull on his senses. H’aalyek even caught a glimpse of what looked like a dragonborn priest, based on what he was told of non-aarakocra people, on abusy street corner attempting to spread the word about their god. His heart was aflutter, his mind and beak wide open as each and every new sensation brought a gust of pure joy into his very being.

He thanked Syranita for delivering him to Nicodranas’s Restless Wharf during a massive party, or a ‘festival’ as he overhead some passers-by call it. Though H’aalyek could have feasted on the banquet of sensations all day long, a very real grumble in his belly brought things into singular focus. He quickly made his way to a row of food stalls which appeared to be as small wagons full of tasty traveling morsels. The vendors clamored to him, desperate to one-up one another with samples of public fare that were “second to none,” or at least the carts on either side of them.

In the end, a small, strange creature with a very big sales pitch caught his attention, as none of the stories of foreign peoples mentioned anything so strange as the vendor with the angel face and goat legs. The cherubic young creature insisted that his wares were godly in taste and value, and all but shoved something he called ‘baklava’ into H’aalyek’s beak.

“Is good yes? Only eight silver for a full portion of this very ancient and fiercely guarded family recipe from across the world!” The vendor declared with an angelic smile and enthusiastic flick of his little deer-tail. H’aalyek couldn’t respond through the wave of flavor washing over him, as he felt himself carried away by vibrant pops of purest honey and savory dried fruit on his pallet. He swallowed and quickly reached into his pouch for more coin.

Once an entire gold coin had been expended and a hoard of “baklava” was greedily consumed, H’aalyek made his way to a grand stage erected just for the festival, in the direction of a small beach just next to the docks. He eyed signs with the names of performers he’d never heard of but was eager to witness none the less. Since the first performance wasn’t due for quite a while according to the postings, H’aalyek decided that the sensation of sand under his talons and sea-spray in his feathers would feel quite nice, indeed. He walked the beach for what felt like weeks, so lost in the lovely ocean weather and grand landmarks that not even the sound of alluring music starting to pick up from the main stage could bring him back to town.

As he walked along the shore, licking the last of the honey from his talon-tipped fingers and smiling at all the fine scenery, H’aalyek saw what looked like a large piece of fuzzy, brown driftwood and rags. As he came closer, H’aalyek realized that the fuzzy driftwood was breathing and moaning, but couldn’t discern the reason why.

“…H-help,” the fuzzy driftwood gasped from a cat-like face as a slow-moving wave washed over it, blocking its airway and causing it to scramble up onto its elbows before falling to its side. H’aalyek tilted his head in thought, discerning the feline creature was surely one of the tabaxi people he was told about. His conclusion brought a bright spark of excitement to his face.

“Oh, is this a performance? You’re a performer, yes? What kind of- Oh! I get it! ‘Catfish!’ Funny joke!” he happily chirped as the driftwood-turned-tabaxi man in his sight gave him a groggy confused look.

“Where…am I? Where is…me crew, m-me ship?” he slowly mouthed with a deep, water-logged voice, as if struggling to remember how to speak, let alone gather his thoughts. The tabaxi slowly sat up and reached for his pounded head, the sound of the current seemingly still sloshing within. H’aalyek came closer and gave the ailing tabaxi a confused look.

“You’re on the beach, I don’t know, and I don’t know either. So, you’re not a performer?”

“N-No?” the tabaxi hazily replied, coughing up no small amount of seawater. H’aalyek’s excitement turned to concern as he gently pat the tabaxi’s rag-covered back. It was then a soothing, sultry feminine voice came from the sea.

“Is your friend fairing well?” the voice asked as H’aalyek turned to witness another rare sight of the day. From the rolling waves came what looked like a curvy, human-like woman dressed in fancy, sea-caressed dancer’s sashes. She wrung out her sea-blue hair and wiped away a few stray strands of seaweed from her azure skin. The gorgeous woman paused to watch with sapphire eyes as the tabaxi struggled to stand. “You might want to fetch a ‘White Knight’ for him. He doesn’t look too good. I’m headed to the stage, but if I see anyone I’ll send them this way straight away,” she offered before giving an elegant little bow and walking, with purpose, towards the officially-sanctioned performers.

“‘White knight’…I don’t think I saw any of those at the festival,” H’aalyek strained to remember seeing any men wearing pure white armor. He shook his head with a smile as the lingering taste of honey and fruit gave him an idea. “But I know what perks me up when I’m hurt, aside from like healing spells or potions — FOOD! I know some stuff called, uh-erm — ‘bark-lava’ that supposed to have god-powers. Sure tastes like it does. Let’s get something in your belly and maybe it’ll help you get your sea-legs. My treat.”

“Th-thank you,” the tabaxi weakly smiled as H’aalyek helped him to his feet, “Name’s…Mouse.”

“Good to meet you Mouse the cat, I’m H’aalyek the bird!” H’aalyek chirped as he extended an arm for Mouse to lean on. The pair slowly made their way past the main stage and back towards the food carts. There, they spied a small crowd surrounding the ‘Bark-lava’ cart. The pair did their best to wade their way to the source of the commotion to find the dragonborn priest scarfing a veritable trove of the honeyed treats.

“THIS IS THE FOOD OF THE GODS!” The dragonborn proclaimed with tears of joy in his bleary vision as he grabbed the proprietor of the cart and held him aloft as if he were an idol to be worshiped. People who were waiting in line for other goods or for the next performance turned to catch the spectacle as the dragonborn priest went on, “I haven’t tasted food in ten years until this day! It is a miracle!”

“And affordable! But supply is limited, so get some while it’s here!” the vendor informed and he kicked his little hooves to be put back down. He spritely dolled out his wares, or rather what was left over from the Dragonborn’s sizable purchase, as H’aalyek did his best to push through the clamoring crowd to get some for his new ailing friend. It was then he felt a hand on his opposite shoulder.

“Excuse me, is your friend well?” A soft male voice inquired. H’aalyek turned to see a dark elf in flamboyant bard’s garb looking at him with concern in his warm, pale-rose eyes.

“I think so, I kinda found him in the surf and figured some of that god-food might perk him up,” H’aalyek informed as Mouse gave a tired, groggy nod.

“Hmm, mayhap…” The bard turned to spy the dragonborn, recognizing the white, star-like symbols on his long black robes, “hold on a moment,” he gently implored, pulling a little scrap of parchment with a bread symbol inked with glowing magic pigment the center. The bard waved it above the throng of culinary pilgrims, its blinking beacon prompted the vendors to part the crowd to allow him passage. The bard confidently strode up to the source of the commotion and gave a charming smile before handing over his ticket.

“Well, I can’t ignore such a ringing endorsement from a brother of the Luxon and not try this ‘food of the gods’ myself, if I may,” he asked the vendor before turning and giving a knowing nod to the dragonborn. “Light of the Luxon be with you.”

“A-And also with you!” the dragonborn replied, shock and joy plain in his sunken, cloudy eyes. The bard’s sight lingered on the dragonborn’s sickly form, as his prior proclamation and the faint smell of death clued the bard into the truth. He cleared his throat and masked his dismay with a smile.

“I’m sorry, my lord; we just sold out. I can make more, but I’ll need a little bit of time,” the vendor said with a pout on his pure pink lips.

“Its quite alright. I can wait on my food, but there is a tabaxi man at the rear of the line who may be in need of a healer’s ministrations, or at the very least some of that god-food, if you’re willing to part with some, brother,” the bard asked with a pleading look. The dragonborn gave one last, longing look to the remainder of his horde before giving a low nod.

“Name’s Marwoelaeth, and if there’s more coming, sure why not. I have a medical kit with me and some herbs if a wound needs fixing. I’ll take a look at him,” he assured, popping one last divine treat into his maw before heading in the direction of where H’aalyek and Mouse stood. When Marwoelaeth’s examination returned no signs of imminent death or grievous injury, he gave Mouse a healing potion before hurrying back to obtain more divine baklava and speak to the one person in all the city who was willing to entertain deep conversations about the Luxon.

“There, feeling any better, Mouse the cat?” H’aalyek asked with a glimmer of hope in his eye. Mouse quietly nodded with a look of foreboding hardly noticing his food’s divine flavor through the worry and dread that filled him.

“Somewhat…”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Mostly…Was on me ship one moment, next I’m in the sea, swimming…forever,” Mouse struggled to recall the details, but he could have sworn he was swimming for what felt like years. At one point his eyes closed, his arms fell numb and something in the current pulled him to the shore, he reasoned. “Gotta find me ship, me crew. They’ll be missin’ me…D’ye know where I can find the dock master by chance?” Mouse asked with the worry in his eye momentarily turning to hope. H’aalyek paused for a moment, replaying the day in his mind.

"I do not!" H'aalyek cheerfully disappointed. "But," he continued, "if I were a dock master, I'd likely spend a lot of time at the docks. Which are right over there," he reasoned, pointing somewhere beyond the main stage where a raised wooden path to the beach could be seen.

“Much obliged for all yer help. I owe ye one,” Mouse slowly asserted as he clasped H’aalyek’s taloned hand for a moment before quickly staggering through the crowd in the direction his feathered friend indicated. H’aalyek felt a beam of warmth in his chest at the thought of helping a very kind new friend. Though he’d had enough excitement for a moon’s worth of days, he resolved to take in some performances on the main stage before the sun dipped any further over the horizon. He found himself jumping and swaying with the crowd as the musicians played through their sets until a shrill shriek came from somewhere behind him.

“Oh GODS, WHERE IS IT — HE’S GOING TO KILL ME!!”

\---


	6. One’s a Soloist, Two’s a Dynamo, Three’s a Tavern

\---

The water genasi hummed as she speedily glided through the wakes of sailing ships as if they were glaciers. The bard known to far-flung fisherman and winsome wenches as ‘Nerissa’ was considered a merry young lass, both classy and crass in her manners and song. She traveled from afar with her bountiful inspiration and a longing to no longer ride the tides unbound as her only companions.

In the wake of the moons-old armistice, word of the 'Festival of Friends’ had spread like a tidal wave along the coast, traveling with great speed to her curious, fin-like ears. While a simple faire would do little to pull her from her air-silk routines or latest musical project, this was to be an unprecedented affair, or so the village caller proclaimed.

While the caller’s usual droning tone flowed in one ear and out the other, the words “foreign performances,” “rare musical acts,” and “a chance to don the stage” stuck in her heart like so many sparkling fish in her well-woven nets. The mention of the legendary “Moonbow of Twenty Lives,” a bard of peerless talent and over 400 years of experience caused a swell of bravado within her bosom, as if his very existence was a challenge the 32-year-old was all too eager to overtake.

Nerissa breached the water for a moment at the thought of captivating a crowd with her silken acrobatics or a siren song. She did a coiling twist that would be the envy of many-a-dolphin, before submerging again to deftly weave between the incoming and outgoing ships.

When at last she reached the shore, Nerissa brushed off some lingering sea companions that clung to her garb and shoulders, and was set to bolt towards any signs of a stage when something at shore’s edge caught her attention. There, knelt a young aarakocra man over what looked like a pile of wet fur, one she quickly realized was a person.

“Is your friend fairing well? You might want to fetch a White Knight for him. He doesn’t look too good. I’m headed to the stage, but if I see anyone I’ll send them this way straight away,” Nerissa offered as she wrung out her long, sea-green hair and briskly walked towards inland, where she joined the packed crowds headed towards the main stage.

Nerissa peered over the heads of onlookers, checking to see if there were any healers among the spectators, but found none. Her gaze shifted to see musicians and dancers setting up the stage, rare sorts like she’d never seen before: elves dressed in bardic finery with snow-colored hair and ebon skin, bull-men with bells on their hooves, and someone she could only assumed was the fire to her water, as the shirtless young man in silken dancing pants spit balls of fire above the crowd to roaring cheers. Nerissa marveled, having never seen another of her kind in her three-plus decades of life. As the young man danced for a moment, the bull-man quickly moving to play a hand instrument in time with fiery steps.

The handsome fire genasi gave a flourish to end his small performance and then proceeded to address the crowd, stoking their enthusiasm and energy until Nerissa found herself swept up in the fervor, moving to bring her hands up with the crowd in welcome and celebration for the festival’s headlining act. The quartet of dark elves introduced as ‘Moonbow of Twenty Lives’ did not seem to disappoint as they played common folk songs from their homeland to fresh, eager ears, many attempting to learn and sing along with the more repetitive verses.

Nerissa smiled and swayed as much as her tiny pocket in the crowd would allow, as the songs went along from soft and slow, to vibrant and bold, to merry and dance-inducing, each bringing delight to all who stopped to thoughtfully listen. Nerissa was joined by a familiar face: the aarakocra from the beach, who introduced himself as H’aalyek. She smiled in relief as he swayed to the music and informed her of his friend who was healed by ‘magic bark-lava’ and heading toward the docks to find his crew. When at last it was time for the troupe’s only solo, a strange calm came to the crowd as the lone drow stepped forward, lute in hand.

Nerissa felt the first notes come to her hearing as simple, almost rudimentary melodies even a soft-handed child could play. She recorded them in her mind with ease, waiting in anticipation for this bard of legend to emerge with something finger-cramping in complexity or speed. She felt a pang of disappointment welling in her chest as the bard’s solo slowly came to a close. The bard allowed the crowd a moment to politely clap before giving a little nod and beginning the same song again. This time, however, his fingers seemed to fly over the strings with grace and fluidity not thought possible by mortal hands.

Nerissa’s disappointment soon shifted into a lingering sense of sadness and bottomless sorrow, as the notes wordlessly carried the somber sensation of loss into the once-cheery crowd. Where laughter and idle chatter once flowed, a silent, unbreaking attention filled the eyes of every spectator, overtaking their tears and keeping their gazes transfixed on the stage. Nerissa smiled, as if gleefully fooled, as she watched the people around her wipe their tears of sorrow and joy at the brilliant performance.

When the second rendition came to an end, there was a moment of silence before the crowd burst into sobbing, thundering applause. Nerissa joined in the clapping, but the performance only deepened her desire to get on that main stage, to be a font of inspiration to those who sought it in theater and song. She decided it was time bid farewell to her new feathered friend and fight the current to make her way to find the stage-master. The thought of getting her name added to that list, even as an after-thought, propelled her forward through the drunkards and chattering dames, struggling to cut a path forward but not faltering in her steps. Just as Nerissa was appeared to reach the front of the still-thick crowd, a scream rang out from somewhere behind her.

“Oh GODS, WHERE IS IT — HE’S GOING TO KILL ME!!” The squat and semi-plucked looking aarakocra squawked, as several people began moving away and doing their best to avoid getting hit by one of the decorative tassels or superfluous hangings on the strangely-adored robes he wore. He spun around wildly as if in desperate search of something, resulting in a bit of a meltdown in the crowd. Nerissa turned to watch the scene with a mix of anxiousness and pity as no one save young H’aalyek seemed to move toward the stricken aarakocra to provide aid. He seemed to be struggling and failing to calm the stranger down. After a few tense moments she turned and headed towards the cowering creature and struggling youngster, placing a hand on the former’s shoulder.

“Hey there, friend, are you hurt? What’s the matter?” She softly asked as he looked up to her with tear-filled wall eyes.

“Please, I-I can’t find it, oh gods he’ll kill me if I don’t find it, oh-hoho!” He cried in unintelligible squawking.

“Slow down, its going to be alright. What’s your name?” Nerissa softly asked.

“K-Krykt, Krykt Brchkn.”

“Nice to meet you Krykt. Now, tell us slowly, what did you loose?” Nerissa asked, causing Krykt to shiver in fear.

“The-the-the thing, I don’t know, oh gods I lost it!” Krykt screeched in hysterics. The other aarakocra hummed as his face brightened.

“Nice to meet you Krykt, I’m H’aalyek. “The thing” you say, would this be a super important shiny thing? Is that what has you so stressed? I would be too if I lost my shiny—”

“Not helping,” Nerissa informed with a forced smile.

“Err, well, anyway — if we’re going to help you, we need to know what’s going on. Let’s get out of this crowd and somewhere calmer. I know food helps me settle down when I’m in a shiny-induced panic and there has to be a tavern or something nearby,” H’aalyek suggested, thinking on how a little bit of food perked up his friend Mouse the cat. Krykt was shaking but managed a nod and affirmation that going to a tavern would be ‘swell.’ Nerissa gave an incredulous look and fought the rising suspicion that she was about to be conned out of some coin in favor of getting the odd fellow out of the crowd and into relative safety. As she helped H’aalyek get Krykt to is feet she took one last look to the stage with a pout before leaving its beckoning presence in service to another calling.

~*~

Simone patiently waited, enjoying the smells of the food wagons’s wares as a new, crisp-and-flakey batch of godly food was taken right from the small portable kiln.

“Here we are, just let it cool and it’s ready to eat,” The vendor informed with a flick of his deer-like tail. The dolloped honey glittered in the sun, as several pieces were placed on a small wooden plate and handed to the drow bard.

“Thank you so much Mr.?”

“Nikolos, Nikolos Baklava-Spanakopita. Though good customers and friends call me Niko,” Niko informed as he happily placed another batch of his god-food into the kiln.

“Well met, Niko. Now, time to see what all this fuss is all about," Simone smiled and was about to take a bite when a familiar voice came from behind him.

“It's been over ten years since my lips have been able to taste anything of substance. I had nearly forgotten what it was like,” Marwoelaeth informed as he motioned to the tiny pastry in Simone’s grasp.

Simone acknowledged the rousing endorsement with a nod and took a bite of the baklava. He smiled for a moment before a visible sadness sparked behind his pale-rose eyes at the fondly familiar taste. Vivid memories flashed behind his vision of his wife’s smiling face, her wild red hair blowing in the wind along with all her penned parchments. They quickly stuffed the pastries into their mouths and moved to save her latest masterpiece from becoming lost leafs in the wind. The Simone of memory laughed with a full mouth at the sight his wife’s full freckled-cheeks, which made her resemble a chipmunk in his sight. The taste of honey and fruit over oiled crust lingered, as the Simone of the present did his best to conceal it all with an audible "hmm!" of delight.

“It's as odd to see a dark elf this far south; nearly as odd as a Hollow One this far from Blightshore." Marwoelaeth looked to Simone with suspicion plain in his gaze.

“Oh, well, when my troupe was invited to perform and we couldn't well decline. Not in the spirit of potential peace talks," Simone offered him a soft, inviting look. "Are you here on mission?”

“Ah I see, here as part of the festival. Since my death, my entire life has been ‘on mission.’This chapter being one of the easier ones, though I dare not get too comfortable,” Marwoelaeth informed with a small snort. Simone gave a sad, knowing nod.

“It's never easy. After the first life, well, things certainly change, but not always for the better. I can't say I know from first-hand experience what it's like to be un-dead, however..." Simone gave an apologetic look as the smile on his new companion’s face faded.

“Oh, you’re one of the privileged ones,” Marwoelaeth harshly scoffed, “and how many refugees have you under your feet?”

“I-I’m sorry?” Simone gave a confused, questioning look, lowering the bit of baklava he was about to take a hearty bite of.

“The consecuted; those chosen are always of the elite classes already. The elves gather refugees to their shores not to support or help them, and certainly not to provide them the Light, but to leech memories and lifetimes for the chosen few to play at being gods,” Marwoelaeth growled, earning him some uneasy looks from a few nearby customers.

“Oh I’m terribly sorry but, I was only consecuted on the whim of an elite matron because of my music along with my wife for her stage-craft. 'Preservation of the Arts' she said...” Simone spoke with sincerity and empathy in his tone, not daring to take another bite of his afternoon meal.

“Hah! Rich to hear one privileged to live a second life play the victim. You benefit from the classism that plagues Rhosana. I arrived at the gates a refugee like so many others, expecting to be welcomed into the Light, but the treatment of the lessers showed me the truth. I spent years trying to reform it, only to be thrown out with nothing but the clothes on my back and told never to return. If reincarnation is possible, it should be a benefit of all peoples. My mission, my research ere my death has been to unravel these mysteries of soul rebirth and bring it to all!” Marwoelaeth spoke in a righteous frenzy, noticing that his voice had grown far louder than intended and a gathering crowd had been listening, many of whom began cowering at the fire in his eyes.

Simone reached out a steady hand, with a freshly baked baklava in it, at the a raw display.

"I quite agree. Please, I'm done with my shows for the day, if you wish to get more off your chest, I'm all ears but mayhap we should go somewhere a tad more private. I know of a tavern along the docks that will serve...all guests." Simone offered giving a smile to Niko and a few of the other more flustered vendors.

“You…agree?” Marwoelaeth asked with a confused look in his sunken eyes. “In all my years of research and preaching, none of the chosen ever agreed with my views. They all coveted the gift for themselves alone,” Marwoelaeth continued, paying no mind to the crowd. Simone looked away for a moment in thought, his eyes bearing a mixture of trepidation, fear, and hopefulness. He brought a hand to rest atop his capelet, to a hidden symbol over his heart.

“I have reasons for my views, as I'm sure you do as well. Though I was nothing more than a poor male playing at greatness, I caught the ear of a powerful matron. I once fought for someone dearest to me to receive the gift along with me. She was someone seen to our culture as nothing more than a mongrel not worth the air she took in, despite her plays moving me to write my own notes. Regardless of our merits or breeding, in the end it was at the complete whim of our far betters,” Simone calmly but bitterly informed. The massive dragonborn put his arm around Simone and jostled him, suddenly joyful. 

“Very well elf, let's retire to this tavern and speak of the rebirth of all! I shall supply the ale until we can speak no more!” Marwoelaeth, beamed in delight at the idea of finally discovering someone who didn’t return his words with apathy or derision. He fully intended on talking to his new friend until the sun came up the next day or whenever the were too tired to remain conscious.

~*~

Mouse’s tail anxiously twitched as he made his way from the festival to The Restless Wharf’s main dock area, weary amber eyes scanning the common-dressed workers for anyone in uniform. He walked along, mind adrift to another time and place, on his ship, with his loved ones, dutifully working, happily playing dice or cards for spare coin in the starlight, then suddenly in the water with a ringing in his ear and a hole in his memory. Mouse walked along, lost in thought and nearly bumping into a human with a massive crate when he heard a deep, rumbling voice call out in his direction.

“You there!” A voice rumbled like shifting earth as Mouse turned to see a massive man with stone-hewn muscles barely contained in a clean-pressed Clovis Concord sailing uniform, black boots clicking as he stroke up to the out-of-place vagabond in his sight. The man’s face may have been more akin to a maiden’s fair visage had it not been attached to a barbarian’s body, with tiger’s eye stones for a beard, long shimmering ebony hair, and burning gold eyes that emanated raw, masculine prowess. The officer stopped just a step away from where Mouse stood and peered down to him with peeked suspicion etched in his intense, sun-kissed features. “What are you doing here? This is a restricted area.”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Mouse spoke in a slow, but proper Marquesian, causing the man to give him a raised ebon brow before continuing, “I’m in a spot of trouble; I’m looking for the dock master here about my ship. Could you direct me—”

“Wharfmaster Ignus will not be bothered over a stray. You’ll produce your work permit and get back to it or you will be removed,” the officer spoke in a calm-yet-booming tone, annoyance and no small bit of anxiousness in his amber-lipped scowl. Mouse slowly shook his head.

“I have no permits, I only just washed ashore this morning; there must have been some sort of accident. It’s why I’ve come here to try and find my ship. My crew will be lookin for me, please…” Mouse looked up, unflinching to the taller man who crossed his arms with a sigh.

“If it will get you out of my…ship name?” He curtly asked, pulling what looked like a stack of parchments, neatly bound together with many inked names and times on their pages from his messenger bag.

“The False Whispers is my ship. Finest goods transport on the coast,” Mouse informed with a mixture of hope, anticipation, and worry in his gaze as the Concord officer began flipping through his pages. The officer flipped back and forth between two pages, intense gaze scanning the documents line by line and threatening to burn a hole in the thin parchments. His face grew calm for a moment before his gaze turned to Mouse, quickly looking and confirming the sight of a moistened, rag-adorned vagrant in his sight. His eyes did not betray his intentions as he tucked the stack of parchments back into his bag. The Clovis Concord officer cleared his throat.

“There is no ship by that name on the manifest. You said you ‘washed up’ this morning. What do you mean by that?” He softly asked, making no effort to conceal the suspicion in his tone and causing Mouse’s ears to flatten.

“Just as I said: one minute I’m on my ship the next I’m on the shore. I’m wasting time; thanks for checking for me but I have to go find some word on my crew,” Mouse slowly spoke, struggling to remember the correct words in Marquesian, fluffed tail thrashing as he turned to step away. He felt a strong hand move to firmly grip his shoulder.

“Hold on a moment,” the officer commanded as Mouse turned to give him a threatening look. “Your injuries, you should have them tended to. I can escort you to the infirmary…” The officer’s intentions were clear in his serious, menacing gaze. Mouse was weighing his options for escaping a potential imprisonment, interrogation, and torture session when a furry pair of bright orange-red paws and the person they were attached to pounced upon the offer’s broad back.

“There ye are boss! Woz lookin’ round all over for ye! Did ye check out the festival yet? They got these snacks called “bark-lavas” and you just gotta try one— oh ello, who’s yer cute new friend, boss?” the bright-blue eyed tabaxi woman asked, all but hanging like an anchor around her ‘boss’s’ neck. The officer turned his stern gaze to his subordinate with a growl.

“Skipper, we’re ON DUTY!” he barked. The tabaxi woman in the scantily-altered version of what may be mistaken for a Clovis Concord sailor’s uniform grinned as she flicked her fluffy red tail.

“Don’t mind the boss; he’s just super stressed-out over this festival and all these extra ships out and about today. Security is out in force and so are the troublemakers,” Skipper spoke as she pinched one of her boss’s stone-beard cheeks, “S’there something you need help with, hon?”

Mouse explained his situation once more, in a seemingly futile last attempt to obtain any information on The False Whispers from the pair. Skipper looked to her boss, as they exchanged a knowing look. The officer grunted and pried the still-clinging Skipper from his person.

“Would it KILL YOU to…never mind; handle this, won’t you?”

“Can-do, boss,” Skipper said with a click of her long-boots and a perky salute. The officer rolled his eyes with a sigh before returning a proper salute and walking back in the direction of where yet another merchant vessel was docked and making ready for inspection. “That was a close one. Altan’s a great fella but he just takes his job WAY too seriously,” she informed turning to smile at her charge. Mouse’s maw twisted in utter frustration.

“…if you have no information on my ship, we’re done here.”

“Well, that’s not exactly true. Walk with me, tom cat, and keep that cute little button nose of yours shut while I talk,” Skipper batted her eyelashes before turning and motioning for Mouse to silently follow. Against his better judgement, and still well within the sights of ‘Altan’, Mouse did as he was told. “So, if the boss wants you ‘in the infirmary,’ it means he thinks yer a scurvy pirate in need of th’Concord’s attention. You’re not a pirate, are ye mister…”

“Mouse.”

“Mouse — listen good. I’m about to drop you off at a tavern, a safe spot for ‘washed up’ folks who maybe got the wrong attention. You lay low for a bit while your new best friend Skipper takes care of a few things. You see, we did get some troubling reports of a pirate ship that was taken out last night just a few hour’s swim from the coast. VERY hush-hush, don’t want to cause a panic or, I don’t know, A WAR, on this big day’ o peace now do we?” Skipper smirked and flicked her tail as they traveled along the dock towards a row of what looked like closely-lined warehouses. As they approached, the brick-and-mortar warehouses turned into eateries, shops, and taverns.

“We ain’t pirates, we’re a cargo crew,” Mouse insisted as they approached an alley between two larger buildings. Tucked, out of sight on the inner corner was the side entrance to a dive called “The Shell’s Bells”

“After you,” Skipper insisted with a flourish and waited for Mouse to enter before pausing to look around to see if they were being watched. “Sit tight here until I come for ye. Tell the man at the bar that “the skipper sailed you in” and he’ll take care of you. And don’t look any Concords in the eye, savvy?” she winked.

Mouse gave a long sigh and nodded with an anxious flick of his tail. As he turned and walked through the narrow hallway, quickly finding himself in a small room with a very well-stocked looking bar and cozy tables and chairs. At the far end of the room he noticed a familiar avian face sitting with two companions, one of which seemed quite hysterical. H’aalyek spotted him and waved enthusiastically, motioning for him to pull up a chair and sit beside him. Mouse gave a weary smile and returned the wave, before turning to inspect the rest of the small space.

He raised a brow as two more figures from the day sat only a few tables away, discussing something about a light, loudly and at length. At yet another table sat perhaps the oddest couple in the room: a prim paladin woman sat cross-armed and dressed in shining armor, shaking her head and scowling at the low-down looking blue tiefling man across from her. He grinned with two huge mugs of brew in either hand and one in his long, spiked tail. Mouse shook his head and moved to the bar, speaking the words he was instructed. Mouse was rewarded with a gracious nod and a large cup of grog on the house.

As the burning liquid coated his throat, Mouse’s memories drifted once more to his crew, his family. Where were they? Was his ship destroyed in a horrible case of mistaken identity? His musings came to an abrupt end when he took his seat beside his rescuer and leaned in to listen to the conversation.

“Please, Krykt, you’ve had enough,” the beautiful blue-skinned woman Mouse vaguely remembered coming from the sea pleaded. “Can you try again, slowly, and from the top?”

The very suspect-looking aarakocra in Mouse’s sight took several gulps of grog before wiping his beak with the back of his star-robe sleeve and attempting to start his story again from the beginning.

“So, I work for a local merchant, he’s a really powerful elf wizard and he wanted me to handle a d-delivery to an influential client of his. I was supposed to deliver the crate from Port Zoon to here, but I-I got distracted by some shinnies and dropped it somewhere along the beach…I think,” Krykt stroked his beak and narrowed his eyes, speaking in a haggard tone that bespoke if his profound uncertainty. It was then one of the patrons in the tavern stood and approached the table.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry for listening in but, did I hear something about a lost crate?”

\---


	7. Crate Expectations

\---

“Well ain’t you a cutie; and ye make these? Gotta get th’recipe; I’m a bit of a dab baker meself,” Patrick smiled as he stuffed another whole baklava into his maw and licked his clawed fingers before turning to motion for Annie to pass over a few more silver coins. What Patrick and Annie’s perceived as an angel-faced tiefling boy beamed as sparkles seemed to emanate from his very being.

“I’d love to trade recipes! Well, maybe not this one, old family secret you see, b-but please, if you think my work is worthy of learning, stop by tomorrow and we’ll talk, yes?” The vendor gave a little jig, flitting about with a flick of his deer tail.

“Better watch yerself kiddo, carry on like that yer like to crack a hoof,” Patrick winked as he ordered more baklava and told the little fawn-like lad to keep the change, earning him an outraged huff and a firm tail tug from Annie.

“Enough! Stop spending MY coin on things we don’t need,” Annie insisted, pulling Patrick by his tail in the direction of the docks.

“Oy, oy, leggo! That’s me bloody spine yer tuggin!”

“Well stop wasting _my_ money. That was two gold we could have used on getting you some proper armor, or at least do something about that pointed stick you call a lance. Or do you _like_ getting stabbed?” Annie grumbled with a flicker of worry in her eyes.

“With th’right circumstances—”

“Never mind. Just—let’s just see if we can find somewhere quiet to ask around about your brother. Mayhap this was poor timing, after all,” Annie sighed and knitted her brow as the crowd swelled with more non-human folk than she even thought existed.

“‘ere, stuff this in that sour puss,” Patrick spun slightly from behind to quickly put a piece of baklava to Annie’s lips. Despite being anxiously determined to get started on their quest, Annie couldn’t resist the flaky pastry’s tempting layers. She chewed in silence for a moment as Patrick enjoyed the sights and smells of the festival in relative peace.

“Hmm, not bad,” she flatly admitted.

“See? Live a little,” Patrick smiled with a small little tap on her shoulder.

“Easy to say when its someone else’s silver,” Annie scolded with a smile.

“Fine, miss coin-counter, but look at these people. They’re just glad t’be ‘ere wiv no one fussin over who they are or wot they look like. Maybe Alrick’s found ‘imself a lil spot somewhere, too. Besides, I do recall somethin’ about a lady owing a lad a barrel of ale. Ain’t no place better to pick up some info than a tavern, eh?”

Annie looked around and gave a reluctant nod. They waded through the crowd, past a stage where people were pooling, and flowed to a row of well-attended eateries along the wharf. While Annie’s eyes wandered to an eatery with affluent furnishings, the gaze of the greeter seemed to rest uncomfortably on Patrick’s thread-bare, infernal form. Excuses and misdirections came from the greeter’s human lips, offering suggestions on other locales that may be better suited for ‘budgeted tastes.’ Annie moved to protest until she felt a soft hand grasp her arm.

“Let’s not waste yer money ‘ere, eh? C’mon then,” Patrick softly spoke, casting a glare to the human greeter as they walked away. Four eateries of the same treatment later, the pair found themselves in front of a grimy, salt-caked dive of a tavern called “The Shell’s Bells.” Patrick smiled and moved to grab the creaky door, motioning for Annie to enter first.

The pair found all sorts of folk enjoying food and drink in the small space, none in their number appearing human. Patrick smiled and waved to a surprisingly familiar face: the drow sitting in front of a Dragonborn, loudly discussing light and prejudice, was none other than the bard who played at the Little River Tavern the night of the brawl. The drow bard gave a small smile and a polite wave, pale rose eyes drifting to regard him for an instant before being pulled back into the intense conversation. Patrick made his way to the bar with a flick in his tail as Annie sighed and clutched her coin purse with dread.

“Afternoon, friend. I’ll take a barrel a yer top shelf…” Patrick paused, looking back to Annie with a soft, apologetic smile, “on second thought, gimme something middle’a th’road. Good enough for the lady to share—“

“Oh, order whatever you like, I’ll take some water if there’s any to be had,” Annie interjected with a warm smile.

“You ain’t drinking? I’m sure they got some fancy wine stashed in back.”

“No; I don’t drink spirits anymore,” Annie spoke struggling to hide her disappointment with pious pride.

“Suit yerself,” Patrick shrugged as Annie paid five gold for the promised barrel of brown beer. The barman tapped the barrel as Patrick grabbed three tankards from the bar. He carried a full one in each hand, and one in his dexterous tail as the pair sat at the least-wobbly table left open. Patrick grinned ear to pointed blue ear as Annie sipped on her water and gave him a bemused look.

“Is that really necessary?”

“No, but I’m ‘aving fun…wish I could say th’same fer them,” Patrick motioned to the door as a hysterical aarakocra and his two worried companions walked into the tavern and took a table towards the back of the room. When he was on his second round of beer, Patrick noted a scruffy-looking male tabaxi walk in and give a passing glance before making his way to the bar, and then to the table with the sobbing bird-man. Patrick’s wet attention sloshed back to the slightly more coherent conversation about a lost crate of exotic goods. Even the drow bard, engrossed in his own table’s conversation, rose to stride towards where the gaggle were gathered.

“Patrick? Patrick, focus!”

“W-What? Sorry, wot is the plan again?”

“The plan is we get set up at an inn and go looking for information on your brother, as well as work. I had enough coin to float myself for a while but I didn’t expect to have to pay for two, let alone buy a full second kit and supplies.”

“Hmm…Well, seems like the lot behind us lost themselves a crate a rare wares. Might wanna get in on tha—”

“We don’t have time to go chasing after some random crate. As you said, Alrick could be in that crowd and we’ll miss him if we don’t start looking,” Annie insisted, worry in her eyes giving way to agitated panic. Patrick placed a hand on her shoulder with a reassuring smile.

“Sounds good. Let me work somethin’ out wiv th’barman bout keeping the rest of the barrel for us for later and get going, eh?”

“Thank you,” Annie smiled and drained her cup of water, looking intensely into its emptiness as Patrick went up to the bar. They would find Alrick safe and happy, perhaps snacking on flaky baklava, or taking in some music, Annie asserted to herself as Patrick returned and they set out to put the plan in motion.

~*~

“Oh dear, that sounds like my order alright,” the drow sighed as he motioned to his dragonborn companion to pull up a chair, “Do you know where about you lost it?”

“B-beach, I think, by the eastern beach! Or, wait, was it a lake? A swamp, maybe?”

“Is what’s inside the crate worth the trouble, sir?” Nerissa asked with a huff, regarding the drow bard with a mix of reverence and contention.

“Simone, and yes — there are some _very_ rare and valuable items in that crate. I had them a fae seal on it to protect the contents. And while I, the gracious client, can forgive and demand recompense, I doubt his employer will be so kind…” Simone surmised as his words send a fluffed shiver down Krykt’s spine. “Odd, its unlike Sarnikul to entrust such an order to, uh, a less-senior subordinate without an escort,” Simone mused with a wary look.

“Seems a little TOO senior for the trip,” Marwoelaeth snorted.

“At any rate, I would very much like my crate found,” Simone paused as if something in his mind clicked, “Could I trouble you all to help us fetch it? Since I don’t know the lay of the land, I will certainly make it worth your while.”

“Oh please, please, please — I don’t want to be put in a pie!” Krykt added with a shiver as he took another big gulp of grog.

“…in addition to whatever you spent on soothing our friend here,” Simone sighed and crossed his arms.

“Shinies?” H’aalyek asked aloud, with a sharp glint in his contemplative gaze. Simone nodded.

“Indeed. In addition to, say, ten gold to each of you, if we can employ a certain affable foodie-fae to lift the seal, I may be willing to part with a few things from the crate,” Simone informed as he gave Marwoelaeth a leading look. Marwoelaeth regraded him for a moment before giving a hopeful, knowing nod.

“Well, I certainly don’t want to be responsible for someone becoming a pie…sure, I’ll help _if_ you’ll teach a few of your songs,” Nerissa offered, patting Krykt on the back. H’aalyek also confirmed his willingness with a nod and affirmation that shinies were their own reward.

It was then Simone’s gaze came to rest on the restless tabaxi with crossed arms and a fluffed tail. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the dusty windows out to the sea. Simone followed his gaze for a moment then regarded him once more.

“And how about you, friend?” Simone inquired with a soft, gentle tone. Mouse blinked at being addressed and gave an unintended sharp response to the drow bard in his sights.

“I’ve no time to be fishing around for trinkets.” He turned his unsure gaze back to the sea, as the instructions that Skipper gave tumbled within tempestuous thoughts. Before Mouse could fashion a response, H’aalyek spoke up.

“Mouse the cat washed up on the beach this morning. I found him, but something tells me he hasn’t found his ship yet?” He spoke in Mouse’s direction, the tabaxi sadly shook his head.

“No. I tried to speak to the dock master but was waylaid by a Concord brute and his tricksy underling. She knows something about my ship but wouldn’t tell me straight. She thinks it may be sunk, my friends lost. I am to stay here…and wait for _her_ word.” He gave a low growl and thrashed his tail a moment, kicking a small spot on the floor.

“Well, if we’re going along the shore, we may be able to find something of your ship, if there is aught to find. I’d be happy to help look for things in the surf while we look for the crate. For all we know, it could be out in the big drink,” Nerissa offered with compassion in her sapphire eyes.

Mouse gave her a wide-eyed look, as the struggle to stay or go ebbed and flowed from his features. He peered into his mug and mulled it over the last drops of grog before responding.

“If you’ve a mind to help me find my ship and my people, then I’ll help ye find yer trinkets.” Mouse looked to Simone who gave a firm nod.

“Its settled, then. Let’s meet here tomorrow morning at dawn. Thanks to our water genasi friend, high tide shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Its Nerissa, and you got that right,” Nerissa informed with a smirk.

The group made formal introductions and then goodbyes as they went their separate ways. Some took in in the last remains of the festival, others sought out additional help for the endeavor, others remained where they were for the night waiting on word from sly lips that never arrived. Each found their way to inns or camps to dream of trinkets, gold, and greater reclaimed treasures tomorrow would bring.

~*~

Morning had arrived, revealing the remains of revelry, as what refuse was left behind after the festival was being broken down, dragged away, or carried off by Concord patrols or hired day-laborers. The party began to gather just outside The Shell’s Bells. The last to arrive was Simone, who traveled with a large bag and a small tiefling-like fellow a few recognized as the Baklava vendor.

“Good morning, everyone. I hope you are well-rested.” Simone paused, giving a semi-scared look to Krykt, who seemed to be chewing on the remains of his breakfast without a care or a clue as to what was happening. “This is Niko. He’ll be providing refreshments for our trip and helping with the seal, should we find my crate. Are we ready to de—”

“Yes, let’s go,” Mouse grumbled, not waiting for Krykt to lead, as he motioned with his tail for people to quickly follow him toward the shoreline. Nerissa gave a little skip as she speedily followed and leapt into the waves as soon as one gave a welcoming lap up against her feet. The others followed as the day’s search began.

Nerissa combed the surf for clues as everyone peered at the dunes and tide pools for any signs of a magicked crate or grim remains, finding naught but washed-up festival refuse or fruits of the sea. Niko happily muttered to himself as he made busy checking under every shell or bundle of seaweed for savory additions to what he’d planned on making for lunch. Krykt for his part contented himself to distractedly converse with H’aalyek about all things shiny, unless gently prodded by Simone or ungently compelled with claw and fang by Mouse to assist in the search.

Krykt fretted and flitted about the beach, his wall-eyes barely staying on one spot for too long as the full light of morning began to rise closer to mid-day. The group may appear to passers-by to be on a pleasure trip, unperceptive of the constant shadow stalking behind every dune or rocky outcrop. At one point, the beach began to shrink into a tide-swamp and it was there that Krykt’s gaze seemed to finally affix on a tangible memory.

“AH! In there!” he shouted and hobbled as quick as his squat avian legs would allow towards the swampy area.

“Of course he dropped it in a swamp off the beaten path. Your friend really needs to screen who he hires,” Marwoelaeth snorted.

“Oh, he does. According to him, he owed Krykt’s mother a favor,” Simone sighed and called out to the loosely-gathered group to begin searching further inland, causing the hair on the back of Mouse’s shoulders to go straight. Before he could protest, Nerissa called out from the waves.

“Its fine, head in! I’ll keep looking along the beach!” she shouted before diving back in to continue. Mouse gave a frustrated sigh and followed the group into the tide-swamp where they found scores of strange animals and plants along with bubbling pitfalls that seemingly couldn’t decide whether they were made of earth or water. The flora became thicker, the air more stifling the further they traveled in, and just as Mouse’s protests finally seemed to be turning their steps back toward the beach, H’aalyek heard something coming from just ahead of them.

“Wait. Listen. Shhh…Do you hear that?” H’aalyek lifted a taloned hand to quiet his comrades as a hush fell over the swamp. A moment later the noise which reveled itself to be a raspy, weak voice called out once more.

“H-Help, here, over here! Please!” The voice weakly called, as it sputtered and coughed in the distance. Mouse gave a surprised look as he appeared to be the only one to hear the call.

“Where’s it coming from?” Mouse spoke a little faster as he moved in the direction of the call only to nearly sink into the sand-water. H’aalyek extended his wings and with a great gust he was in the air and circling around just above the tree line. He circled around for a few rotations before his keen eyes spotted something large and person-like making ripples in the center of a pool of sand-water.

“There! I see someone in one of the sand pools. Head east, but be careful,” H’aalyek shouted as he turned into a dive, skillfully landing on a large tree branch before carefully making his way to solid-looking ground. Sure enough, when the group reached the edge of a large water-sand pool, within its center floated a hooded and masked figure. The figure’s hands and head were the only features that could be seen above the shifting, sandy quagmire, as what looked like a pice of flat, square wood bobbed slightly in their grip.

“H-Help me, please!” The figure called out again, raspy, boyish voice weak from thirst and fatigue as their grip slipped, sending them beneath the sands. A collective panic gripped the group as Mouse seemed ready to leap in after the now drowning person. Niko grabbed his tail, ready to pull him back, and moved to the edge of the pool.

“Don’t; you’ll drown too. Leave this to Niko, yes?” Nico assured as he placed his bag of supplies down and quickly moved to the edge. He closed his eyes and concentrated, a small glow coming to his form. H’aalyek marveled as the sand-water began to rubble and bubble at Nico’s will, and in a rush of movement and sound, the sand-water parted, forming two massive walls on either side of the figure hunched over they object they still clutched. Mouse sprung forward, H’aalyek at his heels, towards the figure who slid backwards onto their side in a heap.

“Oh no,” Mouse mumbled as he rushed to the figure and pawed off clumps of heavy, wet sand and stray foliage from the figure’s slight frame. The cloth mask the figure wore beneath their hood served to keep the sand from entering their mouth and nose. Fearing that the wet cloth may new keep fresh air at bay, Mouse quickly removed the figure’s hood and mask revealing a beautiful tiefling with pale blue skin and jet black hair who did not appear to draw breath. “Help, they ain’t breathin’!”

At Mouse’s call, Marwoelaeth put down the strange, mutated frog he was carving for reagents and hurried past where a sweating Niko stood maintaining his spell and where the three knelt.

“Come, let’s get him to solid ground. I don’t know how long these walls will hold,” he informed and easily scooped up the willowy tiefling as if they were a child’s rag doll before quickly getting them to where the others waited, Mouse swiftly following. H’aalyek watched the scene, before peering back to the object the figure left behind. H’aalyek picked up the box-like object and a small carved crook nearby before making his exit and allowing Niko to drop his spell. At once the walls came back together with a loud bang, as the sand-water settled into a quagmire once more.

Marwoelaeth pulled out his medicine kit and potions, tending to the tiefling as the other watched and waited. Within a few agonizing seconds, the tiefling finally and suddenly opened up their shining silver eyes in shock, and began gasping for air and clutching at their chest. Niko bound up with a water-skin and handed it to Marwoelaeth to administer. Mouse watched on with a pang of shame as the now adorable creature in his sight desperately gulped down the water and trembled.

“T-Thank you. I don’t know how long I was…If you hadn’t, I’d b-be,” the tiefling spoke in a calmer tone, their raspy voice not discernibly male or female in the group’s hearing. They gulped down more water as his gaze drifted to his rescuers, nearly dropping the water-skin as the sight of a familiar figure caused their eyes to go wide with rage.

“Y-You…YOU! YOU LEFT ME TO DIE YOU SONE OF A — I’ll KILL YOU!” The tiefling raged, as they moved to lunge only to have a wave of dizziness take them, and return them to the ground with a groan. At that moment the group followed the tiefling’s gaze to Krykt who fluffed up in surprise before regarding the tiefling with a finger under his beak in thought.

“Do I…know you?” Krykt asked and tilted his head. The tiefling gritted their teeth and gave Krykt the most fearsome look they could muster.

“Yes you f-feather-brained fool! Lord Sarnikul hired me as your escort, remember? You kept getting us off track and leaving the cargo YOU were supposed to carry behind. I confiscated it when you darted off into this awful sink-pit.” The tiefling grasped their head in pain, with a groan.

“That explains much,” Marwoelaeth scoffed and rolled his sunken eyes.

“Well, thank goodness you're safe and sound, if not a bit irate. And now, the rest of us can finally get back to looking for that missing crate. What a coincidence you happen to have one of your own!” H’aalyek chirped as he gave the crate the tiefling was clinging to a little jostle in his careful grasp. Simone beamed at H’aalyek and the tiefling as he turned his gaze in the direction of the beach.

“Let’s quit this place and get our new friend to safety, shall we? I believe we still have some searching to do along the beach,” Simone suggested, looking to the tiefling with a smile that seemed to welcome their name. They looked away for a moment, strands of jet-black hair coming into view. The tiefling shivered at the realization that their face was exposed, causing them to pull the hood up over their azure visage once more.

“I’m um…Recovery,” they informed in an unsure tone as Marwoelaeth moved to scoop them up once more. The group left the tide-swamp with more valuable treasure than they realized.

\---


	8. Of Mice and Maws

\---

“I’m sorry. S-So unseemly, being carried like a maiden…” Recovery softly apologized in a more collected, lordly tone to Marwoelaeth, who set the tiefling down on a soft, dry dune. Marwoelaeth regarded his trembling charge with a hint of confusion before the trained baritone and implication in Recovery’s words brought clarity.

“No harm done, lad. You were treading that mire for, what, a day or two? Doubt I’d even be awake if I were still alive,” Marwoelaeth chuckled. Recovery nodded, pulling his wet, sandy hood further over his face and removing his mask to dry.

“I owe much to that crate, which was more important than I was, apparently,” Recovery grunted and cast a glare to the ever-oblivious Krykt as something hidden beneath his cloak angrily slapped the sand. Recovery’s silver eyes went wide in horror, as he held his breath and willed the motion to stop.

“Eh, I doubt he’ll remember his own name come tomorrow. Once we return to town he won’t be our concern, Light willing,” Marwoelaeth informed, giving his own name in introduction before reaching into his bag to further study the parts of toad he acquitted from the swamp.

“Well met,” Recovery spoke with a broken, wispy tone. He looked to his other rescuers, the smallest among them happily cooking something that smelled savory and scrumptious in Recovery’s senses. With the seal on the crate easily broken, Recovery watched as Simone began dolling out its curious contents to those interested in its rewards. Recovery’s wary gaze shifted to the tabaxi who appeared to be nervously carving something that looked like a small piece of wood and occasionally looking to the beach with an anxious gaze.

Recovery’s silver eyes lowered to his ruined garb and trembling, gloved hands, feeling blisters long formed and scabbing on his tender palms. Despite the humming pain and the relief a soothing breeze would bring to his aching hands, the thought of seeing their blue flesh and ebon claw-tips caused Recovery to make no motion to remove their coverings. Cloudy thoughts began to form in Recovery’s exhausted mind, as they often did since that horrible night he lost his humanity. A bitter smile came as a question rumbled like ominous thunder: why did he bother to cling to the life-preserver at all when it would have been so easy to let the quagmire take him?

It had been moons since the night his heavenly, constructed life was stripped away, leaving only the hellish, waking nightmare he now lived. The memory of his father’s face as he cursed his once-faithful elder boy flashed with terrible force, sending a strike of pain far worse than the most-charged lightning bolt through Recovery’s slender form.

In the midst of a swirling tempest of self-loathing thoughts, flashes of bad memories, and fear raining down on his consciousness, Recovery felt something warm atop his head. The soft touch came again as he realized a large, gentle hand was patting him on the head, delivering him from the confines of the storm and back to the clear day that surrounded the little group. The clouds in his mind parted as his tabaxi rescuer handed him something small and artfully carved. Recovery took the object resembling a little mouse, but its smooth wooden surface marked it as a piece of art in the afternoon sunlight.

“You’re going to be…alright,” the tabaxi spoke in a slow drawl, giving his name and another series of head pats before strolling back to watch the waves. Recovery’s attention drifted back to the little wooden mouse figurine as a warm, soothing memory brought a smile to his face.

“I’ll be the mouse, you be the maw…” He gave a little chuckle as the image of he and his brother playing their favorite game scattered what remained of the dark thoughts. It wasn’t the first time memories of his younger brother brought a mixture of comfort and guilt in the midst of melancholic episodes, but the hope of seeing his dimpled smile and innocent, adoring eyes once more was enough to scatter the storm, for a time. “Luciel…”

The smell of something spiced and savory brought his eyes from the little wooden mouse gently cupped in his hand to Niko, who now stood before him with a skewer of what looked like juicy, delectable meat.

“Here, have some. You do eat meat, yes?”

“Yes, very much. Thank you,” Recovery managed as he kept the wooden mouse close to his chest with his right hand and accepted the skewer with his left.

“It’s no trouble at all; I’m just glad I packed a little extra. You could say my food has a ‘magical’ way of invigorating the pallet,” Niko informed with a flick of his deer-tail. Recovery sampled a small bite of the skewered meat as the flavor blanketed him like a colorful, artfully-woven shawl. Recovery gave an affirming nod and took a bigger bite.

“I’ll say… Niko, was it? This is fit for a lord, maybe even the Emperor himself,” Recovery spoke, voice slipping into a more feminine, natural affection before taking another large bite, using the time spent chewing to consciously resume his more lordly tone. “That was some impressive spell-work, by the way. Was that Shape Water, Mold Earth, or a bit of both? I read fae are naturally in tune with nature magic.”

“T-Thank you! And, you know, I was in such I rush I can’t remember,” Niko blushed as another voice gave an excited gasp and chirped.

“You’re a wizard, Recovery?” H’aalyek asked with glittering eyes and the prospect of meeting one of the magic-men the village elder often spoke about in night-time tales. Recovery finished the bite of kebab he was chewing before replying with a sheepish sigh.

“N-No, I’m not, well — I would be had father not dissuaded me. ‘Beneath our station,’ he said.” Recovery’s shoulders and spirits seemed to sink at what might have been as he took one last bite of his afternoon meal.

“Still, impressive you know what I am. Most people on this side of the world, and many back home think I’m just a small tiefling,” Niko smiled.

“Well of course, I read all about satyrs in _Fae-tastic Beings and Where They Reside: A Comprehensive Guide._ Fascinating reading! It gives detailed physical descriptions as well as their culture, magical skill and…err, yes um,” Recovery cleared his throat, “I may not be a wizard but I do know a few things.”

“Well I’d say a blue-skinned tiefling like you is just as rare if I hadn’t met one just yesterday. His poor friend spend two whole gold on my baklava,” Niko informed with a giggle at the memory. Recovery’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of another blue-skinned tiefling but before he could inquire further a lovely, but utterly soaked woman with fin ears and sea-blue skin, approached from the beach.

“What’s this about a wizard? Oh! Hello?” Nerissa awkwardly greeted when she saw Recovery, offering a welcoming smile before Mouse quickly stepped to her side.

“Did you find anything?” Mouse asked in a more hurried tone than anyone thought him capable. Nerissa finished wringing out her hair and pulling a starfish from her bodice before nodding.

“A whole lot of rubbish, but a few things of interest. There seems to be more coming to shore from further north. I’ll go check after lunch, if my nose is right. Anything look familiar?” Nerissa asked, handing over what looked like bits of ship-grade wood, metal fittings, and some rope. Mouse intensely scrutinized each piece, shaking his head as each item proved too broad or degraded.

“This could be from any vessel… Further north, you say?” Before Nerissa could answer, Mouse had taken off for the northern beach. Nico handed Nerissa a kebob to go, as she took a few grateful bites while running off after him. H’aalyek stood and dusted stray sand from his leather pants and gave a little stretch before following. Recovery looked to the remaining members of the group, the curiosity over the other blue-skinned tiefling replaced with concern for present events, before inquiring as to what was happening.

Simone told Recovery the tragic tale of Mouse the cat and the second reason the group were on adventure that day. Recovery gave the little wooden mouse in his grip a gentle squeeze.

“I want to help, too. Mouse helped save, me after all; if there is anything I can do…” Recovery spoke as he moved to stand, only to have the world spin and wobble around him, causing him to quickly fall to sit once more.

“You sit tight. I’ll go make sure that lot don’t get into any trouble,” Marwoelaeth gave a little grunt as he grabbed his herb bag and newly-acquired spell scroll and ambled to the northern beach. The four that remained sat idly chatting, keeping Krykt from wandering off, and finishing seconds of Niko’s kebabs, unaware of the shadow that shifted through the sands and followed their companions with unknown purpose.

~*~

H’aalyek did his best to focus his attention on things that looked man-made, rather than the broken bits of shiny, iridescent shells that littered the northern beach. Each glistening pebble was as a pitfall, every caressing touch of the tide, a foamy trap. H’aalyek took a deep breath and remembered why he came to the natural treasure trove in the first place and doubled his efforts to find something that would help his new but ailing friend.

When he spotted what looked like a piece of woven cloth stuck in the sand by the surf, H’aalyek hurried to where the waves almost tauntingly moved it back and forth in his vision. Though the cloth appeared to only be covered in sea foam and sand, it held fast to its place despite the strapping H’aalyek’s best efforts. He planted both taloned feed firmly in a squatting position, took a long, deep breath and pulled with all his might. What came up was not only a piece of cloth, but something large, angry and red, in whose armored shell the item along with other man-made refuse was thoroughly stuck.H’aalyek’s beak hung open as more of the massive object rose above him. Two black, beady eyes the size of of H’aalyek’s head seemed to glare at him as a massive pincer quickly clacked free of the last grains of its sandy day-bed.

“M-MOUSE, ANYONE — HELP!” He shrieked, leaping backwards to narrowly miss being crushed by the creature’s massive claw. Sand and bits of washed-up shells exploded in its wake as the creature’s small but sturdy legs quickly propelled it forward towards the interloping H’aalyek. To H’aalyek’s horror the sand on either side of the creature also began to stir, as like-bodied fellows also rose and shook the sand from their debris-littered, shelled bodies. In all, four creatures now brandished angry claws in his direction, as H’aalyek pulled his dagger from its sheath and prepared to either defend himself or go out in a blaze of beautiful, sea-bird feathers.

H’aalyek deftly parried a swipe, as his teachers had taught, and returned a powerful jab with his dagger at a spot where the creature’s top shell connected to its lower body. Though his aim was true, the creature skittered causing the strike to connect with its tough top shell, barely leaving so much as a scratch. H’aalyek spied a flash of fangs and claws came leaping in, as one of the creatures found itself caught beneath Mouse’s powerful swipes.

Another creature lifted its pincer only to shudder and falter as some of its shell began to turn black and rot away where it had been struck by an unexpected spell. Had H’aalyek and Mouse not been in the thick of battle, they would have seen Marwoelaeth further up the beach, perched behind a dune and casting deadly, necrotic magics towards the giant crabs in his undead sight. He managed to narrowly miss the giant crab under the assault of Mouses’s claws as two more of the beasts sprung out of their sandy hiding places near where Marwoelaeth knelt.

The four crabs nearest where H’aalyek and Mouse fought moved to surround them, seemingly ignorant to the grievous injuries the pair had inflicted, in addition to their partially-rotting shells. Mouse gritted his teeth without a sound, putting all his focus into avoiding getting cleaved in two by massive pincers as H’aalyek attempted to fly above where the crabs jabbed at his person. He flew back, getting a few tail feathers pulled in the process, and gave a quick thought to leaving Mouse to deal with the monsters before casting it away and putting his focus into an air javelin strike.

Though his intentions proved pure, his aim faltered, sending his javelin wide and stuck in the wet sand. He flew over one of the crabs and brought his dagger down with a roaring battle-screech, piercing it through the eyes and sending it stumbling backwards. It was then the pair head a call from the sea, and in an instant a wall of water encased the stumbling crab, forming a sphere around it before turning into solid ice. The other giant crabs scattered as the massive ball of ice struck the ground with a thunderous crack. 

“Keep at it boys, help’s here!” Nerissa’s voice came as she sprinted towards where the other giant crabs were bearing down on Marwoelaeth. H’aalyek and Mouse combined their efforts to focus on one confused crab, managing to sever a few of its legs but suffering several blunt strikes from its flailing pincers. The other two giant crabs seemed to rally and attempt to come to their fellow crustacean’s aid until a bright light came from somewhere in the direction of where the other members of their group made camp.

The blue sky suddenly went bright red as a massive bolt of fire hurled towards the scene, striking one of the crabs in an explosion of shell, viscera, and fried flesh. A moment later, an undulating, warbling mass of energy came from the same direction and surrounded another crab in a blanket of chaotically-swirling purple lightning. The lightning soon turned into what looked like clumps of jagged rocks as they pierced the giant crab’s top shell with violent speed.

Mouse turned to see two figures from further inland, whom he recognized as a barely- standing Recovery and vivacious Niko. The little satyr kicked up little tufts of sand as he dashed into the fray, leaving Recovery to lean on his crook to maintain balance and steady his breathing for another attempt at a spell.

Nerissa shot a wave of thunder from her fingertips, emboldened by her natural affinity for water and surrounding surf, sending one of the giant crabs assaulting her and Marwoelaeth sliding back and sizzling while the other held its ground. The latter creature managed to bring its pincer around her midsection and slam Nerissa face first into the sand. Though she could easily breath in even the most tempestuous tides, the stifling sand caused Nerissa’s legs to kick in desperation while her hands desperately worked to free her from the grappling claw.

Marwoelaeth finished off the jittering, electrified giant crab with a bolt of pure necrotic energy as he quickly scrambled to ready a spell that would free the suffocating water genasi. Nerissa’s persistence paid off as she mustered enough strength to pry herself free of the grappling claw, allowing her to take a huge gasp of air before attempting to get back on her feet. She screamed as powerful claw came down on her shoulder blades, planting her face in the thick sand once more. Marwoelaeth’s spell connected, causing a portion of the creature’s underbelly to darken and rot away but the giant crab still stood, living and doing its best to ensure the bard beneath its claw didn’t.

Just as Nerissa’s flailing arms and legs seemed to go still, the shadow that had been stalking the group ever since they left Nicodranas finally came into the light as the figure’s glistening daggers plunged with brutal force into the giant crab’s shell and through a knot between its eyes. The giant crab shuddered as the nimble figure slid beneath it, giving a deep, long cut to its under belly where it had rotted away, severing the creatures ‘second brain’ before quickly getting out of the way of its falling form. Though the figure moved with fatal precision, the small, cat-woman called out to Marwoelaeth for aid.

“Gimmie a hand, will ye? Quick!” The feline figure shouted, her fluffy red tail flailing as she desperately tried to get the now-dead weight off of the hopefully still-living Nerissa. With their combined strength, the pair managed to free the unconscious Nerissa and begin stabilizing her.

“Help the others, I can handle this,” Marwoelaeth quickly but dryly spoke, reaching for his medicinal herbs and salves. The figure smiled and shook her head.

“No need, they got this,” she informed with a fanged smirk as her wily eyes traveled to where the others still fought. While looking a little worse for wear, Mouse and H’aalyek still stood with claws and weapons at the ready. Recovery managed to send another bolt of fire but it was not even half as explosive as the first before falling to the ground and gasping for air. Niko sent another warbling mass to the two mobile crabs, this time the green smoke turned into needle-sharp shards of wood and pierced the two crabs with a hail of projectiles. H’aalyek finished his with a javelin strike through its belly while Mouse finished the creature in his sights with a kick that forced the majority of what could be called a face flying through and out its rear.

All that remained was to deal with the massive ball of ice before them, and all their assailants would be properly dealt with. Niko’s eyes flashed with inspiration as he began to focus on the sand beneath he ice ball. At once the sand rose to form a ramp-like structure with the ice ball at its zenith.

Mouse and H’aalyek looked to one another with a nod as H’aalyek flew them up the ramp and began pushing the weighty ball of ice. Niko dashed over, creating a little staircase with a wave of his fingers, ascended the top of the ramp, and began pushing. With the three pushing in concert, the ice ball flew down the ramp and skipped along the water’s surface like an arched pebble until it drifted out beneath the waves and into memory.

They gave a momentary cheer before turning their attention to what appeared to be two fallen comrades and a newcomer. Mouse spied the woman and he felt an angry heat come to his cheeks.

“Skipper?! What’s she doin’ here?” he mused aloud as the trio dashed down the sand steps of the ramp. When Mouse and H’aalyek reached where Nerissa lay they cast a worried took to her still form.

“Don’t worry, lads. Thanks to big, tall, and scale-some here, your girl’s still alive,” Skipper informed as she smiled to Mouse’s familiar, angry scowl. “Well hello again. Didn’t I tell ye t’stay put?”

“Why are _you_ here?”

“Same reason you are: trying to figure out what happened to your boat. I have some more information but I think it’d be good to get your friends out of the tide?” She reasoned, motioning to where Niko was helping Recovery stand. Mouse glared at her for a moment more before turning to slightly limp over to where Recovery struggled to walk, relieving Niko and allowing the satyr to dash to camp to alert Simone of what happened. Marwoelaeth picked up Nerissa and flung the breathing but still unconscious woman over his shoulder before walking back to camp.

All were unaware of what Nerissa managed to procure from the surf before she was pulled from the providing tide by the sounds of battle. The little tied sash full of trinkets still jingled at her hip through the terrible fight, and none knew what would unfurl once its contents were laid bare.

\---


	9. Sunk-Ships and Fellowships

\---

Nerissa’s head was swimming. The fuzzy scenery seemed like a sloshing fishbowl as things slowly came into focus. The words “sash, gotta, the sash” bubbled in her mind as a weak hand pawed at the tightly-tied dancing silk at her hip. She felt something warm on her shoulder as Simone’s voiced prayer came through crisp and clear. With his healing words clearing up her cluttered thoughts, Nerissa sat up and looked to the group with calm concern in her gaze. Despite it being late afternoon, everyone looked as if they’d been awake for days, the newcomer in the cloak and cowl especially slow, as they lay sleeping in the sand.

“What…happened? Mouse, the sash. I found things, in the sash,” Nerissa weakly spoke, more-stable fingers undoing the triple-tied knot. Mouse knelt beside her and grasped her shaking fingers.

“You rest. Allow me?” He asked with exhausted but kind eyes.

“Just don’t shred them, eh?” Nerissa nodded with a weak laugh as Mouse’s sharp claws made quick work of the knot and left the water genasi’s prize dancing sashes un-slashed. As the little bits of debris and cloth fell to the sand, Mouse looked as if his heart tumbled down with them. “Are these from your ship?” Nerissa softly asked, perceptive eyes seeing the gutted expression on Mouse’s face but giving no word to its countenance.

Mouse couldn’t deny the familiar sight of cutlery with specific designs carved in the handles, a prized purple lacquer box never far from his captain’s desk, and a large piece of cloth matching the one H’aalyek pulled from a giant crab’s shell after their battle among other broken bits of wood and metal. When combined, the two pieces of cloth brought tears to Mouses eyes. The symbols, though tattered and salt-scathed, were as they always had been whenever he’d look up from his work or wander his ship’s deck during his few but relished free moments. Mouse clinched his jaw with a slow nod, managing to keep the pain and tears in check despite the pool of anguish swirling in his chest.

“Bodies. Did you find bodies?” Mouse barely managed as his voice gave way, tail curling around his legs. Nerissa quickly reached out a hand and placed it atop mouse’s balled fists with a comforting squeeze.

“N-No, what I found is what I brought back. It’s going to be alright. I know we’ve only known each other for a short while, but you can let it out; no one here will think worse of you…” She gave a reassuring smile, nearly coaxing the terrible sadness from Mouse’s being before Skipper interrupted.

“Things from your ship?” Skipper asked with crossed arms a slow wave of her tail. Mouse slowly turned to her with a growl but did not find her usual good-nature, frivolous smiles. She looked to him with serious emerald eyes and a frown, giving a nod in condolence at the sight of the pain plain on his face. “Damn it…can I see ‘em? I wanna confirm somethin’—” Skipper reached down for the little collection, only to have her wrist forcefully grabbed by Mouse’s angry grip just out of reach.

“Not…today,” Mouse gave a slow, angry drawl as he stood, clutching the objects to his chest like a mother tiger would her cubs with one hand and still gripping Skipper’s wrist with the other. Skipper didn’t so much as flinch as Mouse bared his fangs and thrashed his fluffed tail. She did however, lower her tail and head with a firm nod and a little wiggle of her arm to be set free. Mouse obliged and she took a small step back.

“As you know, I’m with the Clovis Concord; Skipper Sails, in case I forgot to mention it. What I’m sure ye guessed by now is I’s got other interests. My associates prefer to keep our existence discreet, if its all the same to you. Just know we’re on the side of th’people; good, decent sailors. By our estimation, there have been others, as many as five innocent merchant ships that have been sunk in the last six moons in the name of pinchin’ pirates. I want to see the items to check for something…If what I think happened went down, then there will be telltale signs of foul play,” Skipper extended a hand and motioned with her fingers for Mouse to hand over the items. He slowly complied and Skipper began poring over every dent, chip, and char-mark.

She put a particularly badly-burnt piece of wooden railing to her snout before holding it up in the sunlight. Her ears went flat at the sight of little bits of sand-grain metal glistening in the evening sky.

“Yep, there it is. Found the metal powder bits in the other wrecks, too,” Skipper sighed and handed the items back to Mouse. “Don’t ye worry none, tomcat. If your friends agree to do some heavy lifting, we’ll get the people who did this—”

“I have no taste for your vengeance…” Mouse spat and clutched the items to his chest once more.

“Aye, and why all the truth-spinning and intrigue? If your people are so many and mighty why do you need our aid for the ‘heavy lifting?’ Sound’s suspect,” Marwoelaeth interjected, giving Skipper visible pause. Her tail flicked and fluffed at the tip, usually quick lips seemingly unsure of how much to spill. Skipper looked to Mouse, who’s attention turned back to the objects, tail still wrapped around his legs. Skipper sighed.

“A few reasons. Our leader recently went missing and we, mainly me, think she may have been on Mouse’s ship. I’m trying to put pressure on my contacts to find out for sure, but if she was, there is a chance she and others might’a been captured’n questioned. There are lots of blighters in the Concord and Revelry who’d want to get their grubby mitts on our intelligence. Those of us in deep-cover, like myself, can’t afford to blow it right now. That’s the truth, I swear it,” Skipper sighed. It was then a weak, raspy voice came from where Recovery lay.

“I’ll help,” Recovery spoke as he struggled to sit up. “If helping you find your leader gives us a chance at finding someone alive from Mouse’s ship, then I have to try. It’s the least I can do for him, for saving me.”

Simone gave Recovery a curious look as something sparked behind his eyes. He didn’t need to reach for the old, musty scrolls in his travel bag to know the words they bore, describing this very scene in mystical poetry. Simone’s mind worked quickly, adjusting his cufflinks and hat as he carefully arranged his next words.

“Yes, I quite agree with Recovery. It’s not good form to abandon a companion in need; once we conclude business here and I check in with my handlers, I can lend a hand as much as I’m able.” Simone smiled and gave a concerned look to Krykt, who seemed as if he was about to fall asleep from utter boredom and lack of tempting shinies. “Though, perhaps miss Skipper would be so kind as to tell us exactly what we’re ourselves getting into?” Simone spoke with implication directed at everyone at the scene, minus the delivery aarakocra with disheveled feathers.Marwoelaeth crossed his arms and gave an intimidating nod towards Skipper who gave a small smile in response.

“I’ll tell you what I can—“

“You’ll tell us everything,” Mouse snarled, the fur all along his spine standing straight up to the base of his tail. Skipper shook her head with a bemused sigh.

“Look, there’s more to this than what I can tell you, especially out in the open. We’ve been investigating a ‘rat infestation’ in the Concord’s hull for some time now, one we think runs deeper than a few sunk ships. We’ve lost a lot of people over it, and now maybe our leader too…Tell me, did The False Whispers have any passengers when ye left? Would have been a tall, dark-haired human woman coming on at Port Zoon,” Skipper asked, her own confident faced slipping for just a moment, revealing a mix of hope and fear. Mouse was about to shake his head, before the image of a stranger flashed in his memory.

“Yes there was. Big, tall, curly black hair. Gap in her front teeth. Said ‘er name was Su-zan, Suslan? Susan…” Mouse recalled as the memory of him bumping into the imposing yet calmly jovial woman came to mind. Skipper’s tail fluffed slightly.

“Aye, then there is hope some on your ship were taken alive. And thankfully, no, we haven’t happened on any bodies other than your lucky hide. We have some solid leads, but I can’t personally go poking my nose around town, ye understand? That’s where you all come in. We find who’s been moving this special metal-glitter powder and we find a lead into th’one stuffing the keg. If you all are up for it, we should make tracks back to town,” Skipper declared, looking about the group. 

“Excuse me…Shouldn’t we, you know, say a few words?” Niko sheepishly asked as he hefted his backpack of cooking supplies over his shoulders. “Just because we haven’t found any bodies doesn’t mean people weren’t lost, or at least hurt. Maybe some are still trying to find their way back?”

A few eyes turned to Mouse while others drifted closed in silent prayer. Recovery gave a small nod and grasped the wooden mouse in his side pouch with a pang of sadness flowing to his chest. Mouse, still clutching the last and only remains he had of his ship, bitterly looked away.

“There’s naught t’say, but much t’do for the lost and the ones we can still save…” Mouse closed his eyes, small tears falling to his furry cheeks but no further. Nerissa stood and took one of her decorative sashes and held it open to mouse, making a little pocket to place the remains for safe keeping.

“Well said. There are those we can still help, and so we should, eh?” Nerissa smiled as Mouse gentle placed the items with a nod, a renewed sense of determination finding its way to his smirking face. He turned to the others, some still offering prayers, others packing up, but all were traveling in the direction of Nicodranas with singular purpose: find the ones responsible for the terrible crimes and find whatever remained of their loved ones, come hells or tempestuous tides.

~*~

Patrick’s tail wagged like it was attached to a proud puppy with a brand new ribbon.The gift of fresh-tailored leather armor from Annie shone nearly as bright as his brother’s sapphire stone, which was proudly displayed at the fore. The flourishes of metal at the shoulders didn’t seem to impede movement, as the fighter practiced with an economical short sword in his nimble grip. Patrick’s stride felt somehow lighter despite semi-stifling new boots as the thought of breaking them in brought a little extra spring to his steps.

Conversely, Annie looked as if her own armor was made of solid boulder. She moaned at the thought of a gentle breeze carrying away her coin purse at any moment as her eyes came to rest on the happily humming Patrick and his wagging tail.

“What are you so jolly about? We haven’t two coins to rub together, no word of your brother and no work,” Annie whimpered and brought a gloved hand to her aching forehead. Thoughts of turning back and heading home crossed her mind but a little chuckle from her companion banished the notions as she felt a slight heat in her cheeks. 

“But at least yer new favorite blue-boy won’t get stabbed proper, eh? Cheer up, Annie-girl. I’ll pay ye back for th’new kit when we get some coin, and we will. Still got one lead and it’s a fresh one, ain’t it?” Patrick smiled and went back to humming.

“Yes. A holy woman is looking for an escort to a magical site for pilgrimage. She seeks strong adventurers to protect her from local wildlife or bandits. It pays 20 gold per taker…” Annie’s tone shifted from monotone to suspicious as the look Patrick gave her matched.

“Twenty gold for a walk in th’woods? Bollocks. There’s a catch,” Patrick declared, his tail wag slowing to a slow sway.

“Nothing else to the note other than she’s staying at a tavern in The Skew called…” Annie sharply inhaled before rolling her eyes, “…’The Booty’s Call.’ Really?” Annie sighed.

“Sounds like me kinda pub,” Patrick chuckled before giving Annie a sympathetic look. “Either way, if it don’t pan out I’m sure the tavern’ll ‘ave a work or venture board,” Patrick offered with a smile that seemed to lift Annie’s sinking spirits.

“If its the sort of work the tavern’s name implies, I’ll pass,” Annie smirked as she looked to her companion for affirmation of her wit. When she saw Patrick’s form slightly tense from shoulder to tail-tip for a moment before he uttered a nervous laugh in agreement, Annie cleared her throat and decided against pressing further.

The doors to The Booty’s Call were polished and pristine compared to other, like establishments found around the city. The colorful glass windows would have been more at home encased in a church’s stoney panes than placed in the Tavern’s wooden walls in the pair’s perception, as they entered to find the spacious main level decorated with animal skins, simple wooden furnishings, and a well-stocked bar. Few patrons dwelled in the space, but those who resided within seemed draped in the finest garb people from The Skew could afford. Patrick gave an impressed little whistle.

“Fancy,” he remarked as he took a whiff of something that smelled like sausage and spiced rice and strode up to the bar.

“Be wit ye in a moment,” a deep but feminine voice called from just below the bar-top. A tall, slender figure obscured in a thick gray cloak sat at the bar and turned away as Patrick leaned in to give a greeting smile, attention quickly turning to the bowl of hot rice stew set before them.

“Smells good. Gonna need t’try me a bowl’a that—“

“After we get paid,” Annie interjected as she approached and waited for the person behind the bar to appear. Patrick peered over the bar to see what looked like a bundle of tightly coiled ebon dreads with little pink flowers scattered about the locks. The person they were attached to, an imposing full-blooded orcish woman with curves that would make the most majestic mountain ranges peak with envy, stood and placed her well-manicured and ring-adorned hands on on the counter top.

“Tank ye for waitin’. Now ‘ow can Grash’nella ‘elp you two?” she asked with a deep but silken voice.

“Well met, miss Grash’nella. We’re here to inquire about a job listing. There is supposedly a priestess staying here in need of an escort?” Annie asked as Patrick leaned on the bar to admire the scenic view. Grash’nella winked to the tiefling before pointing to the cloaked figure who sat only a space away from where the pair stood.

“She’s right ‘ere, dearie. Can I get cha anyting t’eat or drink while ye talk business?” Grash’nella asked, giving the two a quick look-over with a perceptive yet polite violet gaze. Annie shook her head and gave a polite, “No thank you,” nudging Patrick to follow suit. He looked to her with a raised brow before giving Grash’nella a smoldering smile.

“Sorry love, we’re a lil’light on coin at th’moment. We’re ‘opin t’change that, eh?” Patrick turned his attention to the cloaked figure, who sat silent during the exchange. Patrick gave a merry flick of his tail but no response came. Instead, an odd and awkward silence formed between the four as Grash’nella grunted to break the tension.

“I understand; its ‘ard out dere. Y’caught d’lady at a good time. We’re clearin’ d’place out fer our six-moon delousin’ tonight. D’inn upstairs, not d’kitchen, a-course,” Grash’nella clarified. “I’ll leave ye to it.” Grash’nella gave a gracious curtsy before leaving the three to hopefully talk and not take up too much space not purchasing service from her tavern. Annie cleared her throat to keep the awkward silence from encroaching once more and stood as straight as her hungry, exhausted body would allow.

“Erm…so, m’lady, my companion and I saw your flyer. We’d be glad to help you reach your holy site, if you’ll have us.” Annie started as the figure slowly turned to face them. Icy blue eyes met Annie’s own as their familiarity caused the aasimar to freeze in their scathing gaze.

“Oh, and what are your credentials?” the familiar voice scoffed as the priestess’ elegant, gloves hands reached to pull back her cowl. Patrick’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the lovely, raven-haired elf while Annie stood frozen in place. “Hello again, ‘Your Holiness.’ How blessed I am to be in your presence once again. And who is this? A little sinner you picked up to save?”

“His name is Patrick and he’s my t-travel partner,” Annie spoke through a grit-teeth smile, her anger and resentment plain in her eyes despite her best efforts to remain collected.

“Uh, ‘ave you two met before, m’lady?” Patrick asked, taking a step back from the two women who stood before one another like two angry vipers really to strike. Ice blue eyes slightly softened before meeting Patrick’s nervous silver sight as the priestess gave a cool, venomous smirk to the tiefling before her.

“Please, call me Grimora. I had the pleasure of meeting your friend in some little backwater whose people have no idea how someone of my standing should be treated. Had she not gallantly come to my aid, telling those bigots that I had every right to be in their space, why I simply don’t know what would have become of me…Oh wait; that isn’t quite how it happened, is it?” Grimora paused to mockingly look to the ceiling and tap her cheek in feigned reminiscence. Annie began to tremble in a mix of insult, rage, and self-directed disgust. She wanted to wring her hands around Grimora’s throat to silence the woman, if only for a moment, but the truth of the elf’s words were as an iron collar around Annie’s own neck.

“That ain’t called for, lady. Annie’s a good girl and I won’t ave you diggin’ in’ta ‘er in front’a me,” Patrick warned, taking a step in front of his trembling, red-cheeked companion. Grimora suppressed a little laugh as Patrick’s brave silver eyes did not falter under her own, where many of his ‘betters’ had turned tail and fled rather than be in their scathing sight. She conceded for only a moment to take in the little glittering stone around his neck, affording Annie the opportunity to place a hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Annie weekly spoke in a defeated tone. “There’s a work board in back, like you said there’d be. Let’s just go see what our other options are, alright?”

Patrick turned and gave Annie a sad look and a nod before sending a snarl Grimora’s way. The pair made their way to the work board as Grimora took a thoughtful bite of her lunch. Her icy eyes sparkled in amusement as their gaze never left the most mis-matched pair ever subjected to their scrutinizing sight. Grimora used the gift that first earned her the rite of consecution, as she closed her eyes and opened them to the truth of what was happening.

The sapphire-colored stone that hung around Patrick’s neck bathed the two in the thinnest of bonds, but there was something in their faces as they spoke, an honesty and vulnerability the two were clearly not accustomed to in Grimora’s perceptive sight that knitted their spirits together. The irony caressed Grimora’s senses like a fine wine, the notion far more palatable than her prior accusation of sinner leading saint. It was then that something sparked in her mind, banishing the smile from her spiteful lips.

“…‘the second sapphire set in wings of gold, the sun shines where the moon foretold…’ by the Light.” Grimora cursed herself as she took the last bite of lunch. She placed her room key and payment on the bar before striding over to where Annie and Patrick mulled over taking up employment as box haulers, dough prepares at a bakery, or clerks at a clothier.

“Ahem, excuse me? Yes, hello,” Grimora snapped her fingers to get their attention like a mistress may to summon her servants or dogs. Annie and Patrick turned and gave her identical looks of insult and anger as she moved a hand to stifle the smile that would have surely caused the two to lash out. “It seems I will have need to your assistance after all. I know we didn’t get started on the best of terms but I’m more than willing to overlook past insults in favor of a mutually beneficial venture. You are correct, I need some assistance in getting to a holy site that’s said to exist in the northern corner of the Quoraska Jungle, northeast of here. You’re going to need lighter armor our you’ll sink out there.” Grimora moved a hand to silence whatever was about to indignantly come from Annie’s twitching lips. “I’ll take care of that, lest you worry.”

“Wait a bleedin’ minute. Wot makes you think we’re gonna ‘elp someone ‘ho talks to us like swivin’ dogs? Piss of ye bi—“

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss my generous offer, unless you _don’t_ want to find who it is you’re looking for. ” Grimora spoke and motioned to the sapphire-colored stone, as if throwing darts at a board and hoping to strike a target that wasn’t quite clear. A smile akin to a fisher who had landed something big came to her lips as Annie reeled at her words.

“How do you know about Alrick? Have you seen him? Tell us what you know!” Annie asked with hopeful, probing eyes.

“I didn’t know a thing until just now.” Grimora gave a little chuckle as Annie blushed in embarrassment and took a step back. “But I did know something had to bring you two together to be so…familiar. I have an ability unique to my order that may be able to assist in locating this ‘Alrick’ if you’re willing to help me reach the holy site. The gold offer still stands, by the way. Think of my free seeking services as an olive branch. Now, what say you? We’ve a lot of preparations to make and daylight is waning,” Grimora asserted as if their partnership was assured.

“How d’we know you got this ‘magic power’ and ye ain’t just blowin’ smoke?” Patrick asked with an angry flick of his tail.

“You don’t, but do you have any alternative? Your desperate state of affairs leads me to believe you’re running out of time and money. And you likely have nothing to show for it, if even entertaining my offer gives you such pause. At this point you’ve not even straws to grasp onto. Am I wrong?”

There was an angry, bitter silence in the small space until Annie gave a small sigh and a desperate, doe-eyed look to Patrick that made his spirit ache. In the end, the bargain was struck. With a small advance Annie and Patrick began their ill-eased preparations, not knowing what their scheming mistress really had in store, but caught in her unknowable machinations, nonetheless.

\---


	10. The Booty's Call

\--

The beach that led to Nicodranas was filled with the sound of crunching footsteps on sand but few utterances came from the adventurers journeying on its shore. Recovery focused on breathing, as his burning muscles seemed to smolder and flare with each struggling step. The stench of swamp water and pungent crab clung to Recovery’s soiled clothing, but noticing the smokey musk inherent to his tiefling body underneath caused a repulsed wince. Gone was the sweet smell of his favorite floral oils, generously applied every morning before donning richly-attended robes, replaced only by the constant, degrading reminders of his true lot.

Recovery’s steps slowed, as he looked about the group for signs of discomfort at his presence. His vision first came to Skipper, who wordlessly lead the group to a destination she only briefly mentioned as “the base,” before coming to Simone and Marwoelaeth. The pair occasionally made quick but quiet conversation about religion or politics before going silent to contemplate each other’s words. Similarly, Niko and Nerissa discussed various denizens of the sea and whether or not said creatures were edible.

With a bourgeoning supplier-vendor partnership proceeding apace, Recovery’s silver sight drifted to angrily glare at Krykt, who happily chirped to H’aalyek about several comely trinkets he’d discovered in his travels. Occasionally he would dash into the surf to collect more, much to the other aarakocra’s interest. As the pair happily discussed the various shells like two wine aficionados may compare varietals, Recovery’s lips twisted into a snarl. His hidden tail began to dart and whip about from its place beneath his tattered cloak.

After seething in silence, something akin to rumbling brimstone bellowed from Recovery’s infernal mouth with a guttural growl. He brought a gloved hand to cover quickly cover his lips in shock.

“He means… no harm.” A slow, deep drawl came from somewhere just behind where Recovery stopped. He turned to see Mouse, hands in his pockets and tail mournfully swaying, walk up from the very back of the group. His amber eyes were smoldering with helpless sadness as his twitching whiskers bespoke of his waning patience. Though his spry legs seemed poised to leap into the search for his ship, his steps had no direction save for the one path laid by the tabaxi woman at the front of the group. Recovery moved the hand from his mouth to reveal his horrified expression.

“Y-You understood? Gods, I’m so sorry — it just slipped out!” Recovery spoke with a trembling, panicked voice. Mouse slowly shook his head.

“No… but I know frustration.” Mouse gave a weak smile as his gaze fell to the still thrashing tail beneath Recovery’s cloak. “You have reason to be angry but only you will suffer for it.”

“You’re right, of course. I know he means no harm but, curse me, I’ll be glad if I never see him again after this.” Recovery grumbled and moved to touch the little wooden mouse that now resided in his otherwise empty herb pouch. Mouse gave Recovery a sympathetic look before placing a warm paw on his shoulder in comfort.

“You’re going to be… alright,” Mouse once again affirmed with a weak but sincere smile, soothing Recovery’s seething anger and thrashing tail until both were fully quelled. A small nostalgic shine came to Recovery’s eyes as he gave Mouse a peaceful, grateful look that made the older man nearly trip in the sand.

“Reminds me of my little brother. Even when he was the one hurting, he always put on a smile and tried to cheer me up.” Recovery covered the hitch in his voice with a weak laugh, the image of his young brother’s tear-drenched but smiling face: covered in bruises and a long, bloody gash across the cheek struck his mind like white-hot lightning.

Mouse’s perceptive eyes took in the visible attempt to minimize a pain that was as plain as the blue on Recovery’s azure skin. He acknowledged the notion with a nod and flick of his tail but made no motion to expose the lad’s vulnerable tone.

“It’s good to remind you of family,” Mouse mused, turning his attention to the buildings of Nicodranas, which were growing larger with each step. Neither made further conversation as the group finally reached their destination. Skipper lead them past the docks where no remnants of the festival remained. Locals seemed all to willing to resume the usual suspicious glances and sneering of which local non-human folk had become accustom.

Among the few foreign guests that remained was an elderly aarakocra woman well-dressed in lavish, silken garb. Though she busied herself packing her fine-woven wares, the sight of Krykt brought a booming call to her beak, the distracted courier instantly recognizing the woman as his mother. Upon quick introductions, Krykt gave a full and coherent re-telling of the last few days’ events, causing more than a few eyes and mouths to go agape.

Krykt’s mother bowed low, uttering the most eloquent words of contrition Recovery had ever heard. Her hawk-eyes spied hints of azure, ebony, and silver beneath Recovery’s soiled clothing, and with a flare only a fashionista of her experience could produce, chose the finest garb and sweet-smelling oils among her wares as a token of her apologies. With mother and son reunited to the relief of all and Recovery gaining some closure and clothing closer to his comforts, the rest of the group continued away from the shore and into the heart of the city.

They blazed a trail through side streets and by-ways that began to look more and more familiar to Marwoelaeth, who called this section of the city, known as “The Skew,” home. When the group reached their destination, the dragonborn gave an amused snort.

“Ah, ‘The Booty’s Call,’ fanciest excuse for a dive I’ve ever preached outside of…” he remarked aloud, taking in the familiar colors of the well-attended and decorated windows.

“Ah, so ye know the place, do you?” Skipper smirked with a flick of her tail.

“I know the people are far more open to my words after last call, though it’s always in one ear and out the other with the old sea-salts,” Marwoelaeth sighed as his thoughts drifted to the many first meetings he’d had with the tavern’s repeat customers. 

“Sounds about right,” Skipper spoke as she held open the door with a little bow, signaling with her tail to the orcish barkeep that these after-hours guests were welcome. Recovery entered first, seemingly ignorant to his quick-whipping tail keeping the others from entering as he strode up to the bar and desperately inquired about a cup of water and a private place to change clothes. Upon receiving a sniff and recoil from the woman known to her patrons as Grash’nella, Recovery took the large pitcher of water she offered and made his way to the store room. H’aalyek and Nerissa marveled at the musky atmosphere and curious, pelt-laden decor. The only thing keeping the bright-eyed Nikolos from sprinting to the bar was the large Dragonborn in his path, who took a slower route to their mutually desired destination.

Mouse trailed behind with his weary eyes fixed at the bar as tired legs carried him to sit in the corner, away from where the others made merry. He ordered a cup of grog with some of the coin Simone insisted he take for retrieving his crate and lost himself in brooding thoughts. Simone yet lingered just outside the door with a thoughtful expression. He cast a concerted look to Skipper and wordlessly motioned to follow him to a small space between the buildings. Skipper raised a brow and looked inside for a moment, before following. When Simone was sure the pair were alone in the alley he gave a nod and spoke.

“I realize I know far more about your situation than I should, but I will not be able to stay for this investigation — handlers, periodic searches and check-ins. Can’t be too safe when it comes to those ‘scheming drow.’” Simone spoke as Skipper gave a small groan and a knowing nod. “I just wanted to assure you that as an ‘well-tended foreign guest’ I can more than keep confidence about this matter. I will also assist however I’m able from afar. However, I would ask a favor of you: keep an eye out for our new friend, Recovery, would you?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Skipper said with a raised brow and flick of her tail. Her usually perceptive eyes seemingly failed to pick up any hint of deception in his smiling, friendly expression.

“‘What you can’ is all I ask,” Simone affirmed with a gracious bow. “Shall we?”

Skipper nodded with a flick of her tail and the pair walked into The Booty’s Call to be treated with the sight of Grash’nella doing her best to doctor two cups of orcish grog with copious amounts of fruit juice and honey-syrup. She sighed in defeat at Niko and H’aalyek’s brave but flushed faces as they took excited gulps of drinks too powerful for their constitutions. Marwoelaeth smiled and lifted his little glass full of bourbon in a silent cheer, before downing the tasteless liquid that may as well been water in his maw with a small frown. Simone glanced over to the stage area and made his way to where Nerissa stood ponderously examining the wooden structure with a distant, imaginative look. They made musical conversation as Recovery finally emerged from the storeroom.

Gone were the filthy remnants of his soiled garb and pungent swamp-water cologne, replaced with a sumptuous cream-colored ensemble with forest green and violet accents that would be the envy of many a noble traveler. Even his slow-swaying tail was discreetly adorned with a long stocking, helping it blend into the cloak as if he didn’t have the appendage at all, despite its instinctive movements. The smell of flowers and honey hovered around his person as Recovery let out a relieved sigh and made his way over to the bar for the indulgence of a much-relished glass of red wine.

He smiled at the sight of Niko and H’aalyek, puff chested and insisting that their drinks were far too weak for such strong-blooded young adventurers despite the redness in their faces and slight slurring of their words bespeaking otherwise. Grash’nella looked to Recovery and Mouse and shook her head as she began uncorking a bottle of Deastok red blend.

“Rooms upstairs be open and ready for ya, if ya need a bed. Some sooner den later. Just take a key and pick a room up da stairs’n to yer left,” Grash’nella offered, motioning to the key rack nailed to a wooden pillar at the end of the bar and an expertly poured glass of over-aged red wine. When Recovery had his slightly bitter but still serviceable wine in hand, he turned to regard Mouse, sitting with a slowly swaying tail at the end of the bar.

“Thank you m-much,” Recovery managed, as he did his best not to stare over-long at the first orc he’d ever encountered. He drifted a little closer to Mouse as he took a slow, savory sip of wine, eyes slowly closing as comfort and nostalgia flowed from his pallet to the rest of his senses. His tail began so slowly wave once more, gently striking the back of H’aalyek’s leg. Recovery willed his rogue tail to stop as he apologized before turning his attention to Mouse. “I, um, this is from my home town. Didn’t think I’d be able to get a glass again, the way things had been going…”

Mouse’s gaze slowly rose with his spirits in the presence of the gentle-faced tiefling. Just as Recovery moved to take a seat, Skipper put her fingers to her cat’s maw and gave a shrill whistle, some moving to cover their sensitive ears with quick flicks of their tails. She asked Grash’nella to bring the group some supper before motioning to a large table in the back. Grash’nella gave a nod and moved to the front of the tavern to lock the front entrance before heading to the kitchen. Recovery shook the remaining pain from his ears as he watched Mouse’s own ears go flat with a low growl.

“I’ll not be call on like a dog,” Mouse snorted and downed the remainder of his drink before taking a room key and quickly striding in the direction of silent sanctuary. “Fill me in later.”

Recovery nodded and bid Mouse a good rest before taking another sip of wine and walking over to where Skipper had the rest of the group gather. They took their seats with Skipper at the head of the table, save for Simone who gave his regards and bid them a warm ‘farewell for now’ before taking his leave through the rear exit at Skipper’s direction. Skipper cleared her throat before speaking.

“Just wanted to get a few things in order. Grash will get ye set up with a room, if ye need one. Ye’ll wanna find work, and there’s plenty to be done ‘round the market and shops across the way. My people think that the powder that’s being used to take out ships might be squirreled away and carried through this area. We don’t know exactly where, or by who, but if y’all get work you can get in places we can’t and earn a little coin while yer at it. I know Grash could use a few hands and it would help us to have some extra ears as about.”

Nerissa and Niko perked up as Skipper’s words, as they excitedly mused of potential entertainment positions despite the seriousness of the conversation etched in Skipper’s bemused face. Grash’nella came by and began placing empty bowls and spoons in front of each person at the table and informed that anyone interested in working at her tavern were more than welcome to try-out before heading back to the kitchen.

“…Anyroad, th’food and drink’s on me tonight. I’ll be heading out shortly to check in with my agents and make sure Altan ain’t nosin’ around where he ain’t supposed to. Have seconds for me will ye?” Skipper grunted slightly as she stood, allowing Grash’nella to place a massive pot of something spicy and steaming in the center of the table. She quickly patted the tavern keep on the shoulder with a friendly wag of her tail before turning and heading into the back and out the rear entrance.

“As a tank you for ‘elpin’ my fellows, I made ye my ‘world famous’ triple-meat jambalaya. Enjoy,” Grash’nella boasted with a smile as she began dolling out the fragrant, piping hot meal.

“Jamba-lamba-WHAT?” H’aalyek curiously tilted his head as a soupy mix of rice, spices and meats pooled in the bowl before him.

“Jambalaya: its when you take whatever you have on hand, add spice and grains and toss it in a pot together. Think of it like sausage,” Marwoelaeth informed as he sniffed the bowl of jambalaya before him, the slight hope of smelling its savory scent resulting in a disappointed sigh.

“Oh, I love sausage!” Recovery remarked as Grash’nella reached deep into the pot and scooped out extra nuggets of meat to place in Recovery’s bowl before moving to fill Nerissa’s.

“‘Wold famous,’ eh? I come from a family of famous chefs, second to none; so don’t be too down if I have some notes.” Niko spoke with as much bravado as confidence in his voice, oblivious to the aghast look Nerissa was giving him. Niko kicked his little hooves in anticipation as Grash’nella poured his portion and waited with smirk. Niko stirred the contents of his bowl before lifting a spoonful to his nose for inspection. His incredulous expression quickly changed as the food hit his tongue, causing all sorts of pleasurable sensations to burst from his tastebuds and to the rest of his quivering form. Tears of joy welled in his face as he took another few bites and cast a doe-eyed look of apology and amazement to the talented tavern keep.

“No. Never mind. S’real good!” Niko managed to impart between bites. Spurred by Niko’s theatric reaction, H’aalyek brought a spoonful to his own beak. Unlike the waves of joy that seemed to emanate from his companion, H’aalyek found there was nothing short of a raging inferno atop his tongue. The lad did his best to quench the burning with cool, fruit-juice laden grog but it only appeared to make the sweat flow more profusely from his every feathered pore in Recovery’s concerned sight.

Recovery reached across the table and placed his fingers on the base of H’aalyek’s drink. He took a breath, uttered a spell, and released his grip as a thin layer of ice encased the glass and some of the table top. After a moment to process the action, H’aalyek gripped his drink and, with a crack of ice he lifted it from the table, bringing the chilled beverage to his spice-scorched beak.

“Ah, thank you! That’s a neat trick.” H’aalyek chirped as he took another sip, bite of supper, and then another sip.

“Thank you! I’m glad to finally use it. Sort of funny story, actually… I misread a spell’s purpose during my studies and thought ‘Chill Touch’ was an ice spell,” Recovery admitted with a blush, earning him an amused look from Marwoelaeth.

“Oh so,” Niko paused to swallow the bit of food in his mouth and dab some rice from his cheeks with the back of his sleeve, “You’re like me. You can make spells do whatever you want them to, yes?” Niko asserted with a grin and happy wiggle of his deer-like ears.

“Not always on purpose, but yes, I can,” Recovery affirmed with an excited wag of his tail that left him scrambling to bring it to heel before it struck his companions sitting beside him. “S-Sorry, I’m still not used to this stupid thing.”

“Oh? Weren’t born with it? Were you cursed or something?” Nerissa carefully asked, poking at a savory lump in her jambalaya that appeared to be more fat than meat. Her perceptive sapphire eyes softened a little at the sight of Recovery’s tensing shoulders. Their eyes met for a moment, fear meeting beckoning safety, as the tiefling gave a slow nod.

“‘Or something.’ Its a long story. I just spent most of my life without it.”

“Well, not to worry. You have two friends who are tail experts. They can give you some advice I’m sure. One of which hasn’t eaten,” Nerissa paused, motioned for Recovery to wait before rising with a merry hum to find an empty bowl and a fresh portion of jambalaya at the bar. When Nerissa returned she bore a smile and a piping hot bowl of jambalaya, motioning with a tilt of her head to the stairs. “Here; make sure Mouse gets a bowl.”

“O-Oh yes, I can,” Recovery gave a nervous nod as he stood and accepted the meal with a flick of his tail, the spade at the tip nearly getting stuck in Marwoelaeth’s robe sleeve. Recovery gave a frustrated sigh as he straightened up, putting on a smile before carrying out his task. Nerissa watched as the tiefling and his wagging tail disappeared behind the staircase wall before sitting down once more.

“Poor things; it’s not been a good couple of days for them, has it?” Nerissa mused and looked to the three remaining members of her group. Two among them were red faced from food and drink while the other shrugged.

“Mayhap not, but then again I wasn’t expecting a token festival day to turn into all this mess either,” Marwoelaeth snorted and stood. “I should be getting back home. I’ll be here tomorrow; this tavern is as good a place as any to preach and glean information.”

“I’ll likely try out for a performer’s job here at the tavern. Once everyone is of better mind I think we’ll give that work board the once-over. I hope Simone comes back soon, I was hoping to pick his brain on a few old folk songs I’d picked up from elves in my travels…”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be back. Probably has to deal with all sorts of ‘supervision’ given his background.” Marwoelaeth stood, not bothering to addressed the confused looks on H’aalyek and Niko’s youth-ignorant faces. As the empty bowls were collected and the group went about their business night settled over the lot, twinkling stars guiding those along the path forward and hoping not to get lost in the darkness of the days to come.

\---


	11. The Tails of Two Blueskies

\---

Mouse gently slid a small, three-legged stool across the sturdy inn room floor to the nearby window. He threw open the shutters to reveal the last embers of a smoldering sky sinking over the horizon. The first stars woke from their slumber to guide weary sailors across the vast void of a new-moon sea. Mouse planted himself on the stool, the solid oak reminding him of a sturdy ship's deck. The familiar memories of quiet, late nights aboard The False Whispers gently swam through his head with the glittering inky night his only companion. Mouse began to let loose the low timbres of a somber shanty into the cool evening air.

"I dreamed a dream, the other night. Lowlands. Lowlands awa—" Mouse was promptly interrupted by a gentle rapping on his inn room door. He took a deep breath and called for the one on the other side to enter in his usual slow drawl.

Recovery carefully opened the door and took a step into the room before slowly entering as quietly as the creaking floorboards allowed. The door clamped down on the very tip of Recovery’s tail, causing him to nearly drop the bowl in his grip, grit his teeth, and fight to keep the comforting smile on his face despite the shooting pain in his spine.

"How are you doing?” Recovery softly asked. Mouse shifted in his seat and began swaying his tail with a melancholic grace. He kept his gaze to the stars, the slow spreading night birthing more into view.

"Have you ever lost… it all; your life scattered in a swell, but the pull is never enough... to drag you to the bottom too? How do you think I feel?” Mouse spoke with exhaustion rife in his voice. He struck the leg of his stool with a swift slap of his tail before relaxing his shoulders and shifting to look to the tiefling he only just rescued from a dire fate that very morning, standing there with a bowl of something pungent yet pleasant.

Recovery carefully treaded in the deep sorrow of Mouse's expression. He looked away, quietly moving to place the bowl on a small table within Mouse's reach as the words evoked an all-too-familiar feeling.

"It wouldn't help if I said I did, would it?” Recovery softly spoke as his gaze turned to the floor, unable to swallow the feelings down as tears formed in his eyes. For the first time since washing ashore in Nicodranas, Mouse acutely realized that his present circumstances were not unique. The demure figure’s spirits seemed to sink deeper than the swamp he was pulled out of. Mouse had carried the cutting pain of loss before, seeing much in his no less than forty summers of life, each successive strike duller than the last. Maybe now it was time to hold another afloat on this troubled sea, he decided.

"Perhaps," Mouse mused. He motioned gently to the empty bed nearby, ignoring the steaming bowl of food. "If you are willing to tell… I am willing to listen. And maybe we both can find a port in this storm." Memories of long nights below the stars flashed in Mouse's mind. His friendly ear the soothing, cold ale to the sore throats of many of his old crew mates. Recovery gave a nod the way a child would to a trusted adult and moved to sit on the bed as he was told.

"Where to begin… If you can believe it, I thought I was human all my life. Heir to my house, future spell-slinger for the Crownsguard, then proud clergyman, like f-father. As it turns out, my mother was a tiefling who disguised herself as a human. She and father married and when I came along, she used her magic to make me look human. Mother didn't count on my twin and was found out.” Recovery softly spoke, his tail instinctively coiling around him.

Mouse tapped the tip of his tail against one leg of his stool, providing a calming rhythm that slowed the rapid pounding in Recovery’s chest. Mouse wished he had his knife and a soft brick of cedar at that moment, for want of crafting words of comfort. Crossing his arms he donned the kindest smile he could muster, and with a soft grunt bade Recovery to continue.

“I was about to go on a big mission with my comrades. We were going to bring home glory fighting the Kryns and whatever else when I fell very ill. I got closer and closer to death until I found out it wasn't an illness. When my brother ran away, I gave him a stone necklace. I thought it was just a family heirloom but it was actually a charged stone keeping the spell fed. When the spell had no fuel, it slowly began eating at me. Took a while but eventually I had to make a c-choice.” Recovery’s tail beginning to thrash in his gasp as he look grew distant and distressed. "I was in so much pain and I couldn't think straight. All I knew is I wanted to live; now I'm not sure if I made the right choice.” Recovery gave a bitter little laugh and then there was silence. Small tears fell onto the front of his brand new cloak as the tail in his grip slowed its thrashing and more tightly coiled around his waist. "Sorry, still not used to the tail. I still can't stand to see it or anything else,” Recovery informed.

Mouse had subjected himself to many tales of misery and woe on The False Whispers. Betrayals, lost fortunes, jaded lovers, falls from grace, and bar brawls turned accidental slaughters. His crew mates' pasts were as vast and varied as the sea on which they lived. Mouse was always an oasis in a desert of depravity, but never felt the need to let someone take a drink, until now. He couldn't help but see a reflection of himself mirrored in the teary-eyed tiefling that sat before him. Very few knew of what Mouse was about to recall, but perhaps it would lend some solace to a troubled heart. He took a deep breath and moved to sit beside Recovery on the bed.

“If... you can believe it, I began my life as a house cat. I was a pet to a Marquesian noble's daughter. Her friend and plaything for much of my youth. All I knew was the manor and what I thought was the love of my only friend and family. But, as with all creatures, I grew… and what was once a cute kitten became a tabaxi. And that girl's interest in me waned.” Mouse tilted his head to face Recovery. "I was cast away and left on the streets to die a stray; no knowledge of the world, not able to speak, and lost without knowing the concept of ‘hope.’ But somehow, I too made a choice… to live.” Mouse gently spoke and moved rest his paw on Recovery's shoulder with a smile.

What few, thin threads of resolve that remained to hold Recovery together promptly unraveled, as he could no longer keep the tears from bursting forth in a sob. He clamped his eyes shut as his chest and shoulders began to heave, hands desperately trying to stifle the sounds coming to his mouth as his tail whipped and curled behind him. The shame of his unseemly display of weakness in front of such a seasoned and proven man only made the torrent worsen.

“I-I’m so sorry, gods, I’m sorry…” Recovery managed as more images flooded his mind — flashes of his brother emerging from closets after days without food and covered in filth, hidden away and beaten bloody for the smallest indiscretion, taken to clerics and priests for “purification rites” to return with a dullness in his usually shining silver eyes, finding the boy whom he now resembled sleeping in animal pens because he soiled his bed in the common childish manner. After several minutes, Recovery’s breathing slowed, his purple-blue and puffy face slowly returned to normal as his tears slowed to a trickle. He quickly wiped the snot from his nose and tears with the back of his gloves before taking them off in front of another person for the first time since his change.

“My own brother was treated no better and I did nothing; I just hid away when I heard him scream and beg for father to stop. I should have stood for him. I should have done more, I should have…” Recovery paused and took a deep breath, shaking the remains of the unproductive thread from his mind before speaking again. “I know what it feels like to have nothing but hope left. The thought of finding Luciel alive was what kept me going. If I can give someone else that’s got nothing left some bit of hope, then maybe when we meet again, Luciel will be able to forgive me.”

Mouse found no flowery words, nothing within his grasp to craft into a solid comfort. His tail went still for a moment as the only sounds between them were the remains of Recovery’s soft sobs. The hidden moon rose, leaving the beckoning stars to shine brightly through the open window.

Recovery reached for the little wooden carving in his pocket and cupped the small token in his hands with deep breaths. After a long, tense silence, Recovery gave a soft laugh, as their gazes met with greater understanding and compassion flowing between them.

“Your supper is probably cold.”

~*~

The depths of the Quoraska Jungle was a hot, steaming mess of thick foliage and moist clouds that seemed to cling to everything in its oppressive cover. Three figures cut a path through crooked trees and trickling streams nearly choked dry by massive, mossy roots. Two full day’s worth of dealing with the same surroundings seemed to take its toll as Patty and Annie seemingly struggled to keep pace with Grimora’s effortless strides.

“Shoulda brought Clearwater along; th’lad coulda made friends wiv these — yow! Annoying little — ah! Buggers…” Patrick grunted as he slapped patches of sweaty bare skin along neck where tiny insects made their meal. His tail deliberately flailed behind, trying to disperse the roving gangs of blood-sucking fiends relentlessly feasting on him. Annie wiped her brow before hacking a low-hanging branch in her path with a large knife.

“He would have sank in some pit somewhere. Then where would we be? Once we break for food I’ll cast a poison protection spell. It doesn’t last long, but it’s something,” Annie spoke between open-mouthed breaths as the pollen floating freely in the air caused her to sneeze and sniffle. Her hair hung heavy and wet around her flushed face, causing the occasional insect to get caught in her web of wavy brown locks. Patrick slapped the back of his neck with a grunt.

“Insect bites aren’t poisonous and that spell won’t work. If you fools had packed lavender-chickweed oil, you wouldn’t be suffering right now, wasting spells, or annoying me. Be grateful your whinging has only attracted insects.” Grimora cooly spoke as she poured a small amount of said oil onto her fingers and worked it into her pristine neck. Annie cast a seething look to the back of Grimora’s soft, raven-haired head as she gripped the knife she was holding a little tighter.

“Peace, Annie, peace…” Patrick softly spoke before clearing his throat and addressing Grimora. “Could we bother ye for some then, m’lady?”

Grimora huffed and gracefully leaped over a large root before reaching into her pack and tossing a vial behind her without a backward glance. Patty reached out a quick hand but the little vial bounced off of his palm. Annie lunged with and caught the vial while barely maintaining her balance. “G-Got it!”

“Good girl!” Patrick cheered before taking off his gloves. “Give it ‘ere; I’ll get yer neck.”

“No, I’m fine. Here.” Annie spoke as she removed her gloves and the stopper to the vial. She motioned for Patrick to approach before inspecting and rubbing the salve into the numerous blemishes on the front of his neck and collar. “You’re all bitten up; how do you feel?”

“Oh, could be worse. Least it ain’t fleas…” Patrick cringed at the thought, as Annie’s hands moved to rub more floral oil into his jawline and behind his neck, brushing away several strands of sweat-soaked raven hair. Patrick gave a relieved sigh at the cooling touch that was far more comforting in the steaming jungle than anything else.

“I can’t say I’ve ever encountered those, but I’ll take your word,” Annie gave him a concerned smile and moved to rub the remainder of the vial’s contents onto his welted arms. Patrick watched with a smile and slowly-swaying tail as the fragrant smell of lavender and chickweed bloomed between them. “There we are, that should keep them away for now.”

“Thanks, Annie… Oh, wot’s that?” Patrick’s tail flicked as a small flash of bright red in the lush green foliage caught his attention. Annie looked in the direction his preceptive silver sight was turned, seeing nothing as she returned to putting her gloves back on. Patrick made no such precaution as he darted in the direction of the red, moving object.

“Patrick, are you mad? Put your gloves back on!” Annie gave a frustrated sigh as she grabbed his discarded gloves and followed, finding the tiefling only a few steps away, crouching before a fallen, moss-covered tree with a happily swaying tail behind him.

“Annie, come look! Wot’cha think ‘e is?” Patrick smiled at the first speck of life that wasn’t persistent and trying to eat him. Annie gasped at the little creature, tilting her head slightly at the sight. There, sitting with what looked like two tiny beige arms folded before its round midsection was what appeared to be an oversized mushroom with two beady black eyes beneath a speckled hood.

“I don’t know, but whatever you do, DO NOT touch it. That red hood means poison,” Annie informed as Patrick turned to give her a mischievous look. He then turned his attention back to the creature, extending a finger towards it in greeting. “Patrick, what did I JUST SAY?” Annie warned between gritted teeth.

“Calm down, ‘e don’t mean us no ‘arm, don’t ye, lil one? I think you’re just precious an’sweet, you are. D’ye wanna be friends?” Patrick asked as the little creature turned its beady black eyes to Patrick’s finger. It sat still for a moment, before rising to stand on stumpy legs. It leaned forward slightly, extending its arms to grasp Patrick’s finger and slowly sway.

“I can’t believe you. What if it’s trying to lure you into a trap and drink your lifeblood?” Annie scolded.

“Not everything ye meet is tryin’ t’kill ye, Annie. This one's just curious of us, I think. Ain’t ye, ‘Mushy?’”

“Pelor’s grace, don’t give it a name,” Annie sighed. The little creature’s eyes were seemingly shining with contentment, as it swayed back and forth in time with the tiefling’s tail. Suddenly it stopped with a small shutter and high-pitched gasp. It seemed to take in a series of sharp breaths, until with a mighty “CHUU!” it let out a sneeze, sending red powder onto Patrick’s exposed arms. Patrick recoiled as the creature scurried off and out of sight. He could feel a pair of feminine eyes boring into his back.

Patrick stood with a stance akin to a child sheepishly anticipating a severe scolding but all he got was a silent judgement and a pair of soft hands on his. Annie uttered the protect from poison spell, scattering the spores and soothing the swelling that was already setting in.

“Are you two quite finished? I found evidence of Myconids… We’re close to the site, but we’ll never GET THERE if we keep getting distracted.” Grimora scowled as the pair recomposed themselves and continued on. The trio spent the rest of the day’s travel in relative silence, Annie and Patrick occasionally making conversation only to be silenced by forceful, icy eyes. When at last night fell and they were able to find a suitable place to make camp, Patrick and Annie gratefully took first watch. Grimora opted to sleep as far away from the two as possible without straying too far from the campfire’s safety. The pair quietly entertained themselves with campfire stories as they enjoyed a small portion of their rations.

“…and so, th’man was never seen again. Some say ye can still ‘ear his hauntin’ cry whenever ye pass Deadman’s Grove… ‘WHERE’S ME BERRY PUNCH’N PORK PIE?’” Patrick bawdily laughed earning him a good-humored smack on the arm.

“SHH! You’ll wake up a nasty, angry beast… or whatever lives in the jungle,” Annie slyly spoke with the image of the slumbering elf in her mind. She lifted her waterskin to her parched lips only to find it empty. Patrick’s laugh grew softer as he handed Annie his own canteen, silver eyes shifting to rest on the burning logs before him. Annie gratefully accepted and took a full gulp.

“Me an’ Alrick used t’love that one… What’s he like now? I ran away when I woz nine so, I mean, s’got me wonderin’…” Patrick spoke as he grabbed a small stick and stoked the fire. Annie crossed her arms in thought and watched the rising embers.

“Let’s see. Alrick’s soft-spoken, knowledgable, poised, smart, and very kind. He loves working with cloth and threads, not to mention his hoard of teas and home-brewed perfumes. Most of all, he always seems to know what to do, and say, and doesn’t abandon those who need him. It’s why I set out to…” Annie paused, her small smile fading at the lie forming on her lips. Thoughts of her wings and angelic beauty returning were at the forefront of her reasons for setting off on her quest. A pang of shame came to Annie’s chest as she took a deep breath and continued. “Erm, anyroad, you are wondering about what?”

Moments passed in silence before Patrick gave a husky hum and turned to meet Annie’s gaze.

“Sounds like ’e isn’t changed a bit. If we _do_ find ‘im safe, d’ye think he’d still like me?” Patrick paused as Annie gave him a confused look. “We ain’t exactly, I mean I’m not, ye know…” Patrick mulled over telling Annie of his ‘night work’ and less-than-upright associations, but the thought of true judgement in those doe-eyes kept the words from coming. “I dunno if I’m the sort he’d wanna be around, s’all. I wanna find ‘im, but a part a me don’t want to, s’bad as that is.” Patrick looked away and braced himself. Another small silence returned between them as Annie turned to gaze at the firelight.

“You two are _very_ different people, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Word around Little River is that you’re quite the character — always getting into trouble, fingers in some pie, so to speak,” Annie cleared the implication from her throat with a repressed smirk. “That girl, at the tavern, she was in tears begging me not to hurt you and the owner looked ready to go to war with me if I did. A man that inspires that kind of loyalty in people is the sort I want to be around. Were that I could claim the same.”

“Don’t do that. You inspire plenty’a goodly folks wiv yer angel-face alone, I’m sure,” Patrick spoke with a small measure of annoyance in his tone. Annie blushed and crossed her legs for a moment in thought before looking to Patrick with vulnerability and trust in her eyes.

“Not to get into a ‘cock fight,’ but maybe I’m not the sort of person Alrick’d want to be around, either. We were arranged to be wed before we’d even met. I’m grateful to have him call me ‘friend,’ given my circumstances.” Annie looked to Patrick, her words and the look on her face brought Patrick to a slow, further understanding and a violet blush came to his cheeks, “Tell me, when you look at me what do you see? No, it’s not a trap; just the first thing that comes to mind.”

“Pretty hair?” Patrick asked, his turn to wear a confused expression. Annie steeled herself as she felt her legs begin to shake. Whether it was from the past day’s walk or the terror that was now flowing through her, Annie couldn’t decide. She took a deep breath and placed her trust in the kind-eyed tiefling with the sincere smile.

“I’m an aasimar, Patrick. Not that you’d know from looking at me. I had my marks of heritage taken away because I’m just… bad. Grimora remembers me, no doubt, because I didn’t stand for her in Little River when it was clear she was being ill-treated due to _what_ she was, not some silly, out-of-order papers. At the time I thought compromise was the right way, and following the law, but after seeing how utterly disgusting people are to you just for, for breathing…” Annie paused to steady her trembling voice as she fought back tears.

“To be fair, she ain’t exactly ‘Miss Charisma’…” Patrick added, trying to bring a smile back to Annie’s face with no success. Annie shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter. I should have stood for her like I would for you. Alrick helped me see how terrible I am and start fixing it. I do want to make sure he’s safe, but a bigger part of me hopes that it will be the thing that lets me be… whole again,” Annie informed, unable to bear looking to the awe-struck tiefling any longer, fear gripping her and pulling her to her shaking feet. Before she could move to smooth over her exposed spirit with finding firewood or some other mundane task, Annie felt a rough, calloused hand softly grip hers.

“Hey now, come back down, eh?” Patrick coaxed with a soft voice as he gently pulled her back to sit at his side. “Yer a good girl, Annie, good t’me, anyway. Not many’d be willing t’look at me outside’a wot I can do fer ‘em, let alone rub flower oil all over me stinkin’, bitten-up’ ‘ide. And ye did not skimp,” Patrick spoke, causing a small laugh to come from Annie’s received lips.

“After I left ‘ome I got in a real bad way. Cathrine took me in, but ye think I was grateful? Nah, I was a hell-raisin lil shite. She woz well-wisened, couldn’t ‘andle no rowdy kid, but one of ‘er boys could. Vesper. Knocked some good sense inta me fat ‘ead. I woz ‘avin a real dark day one time, real dark, and ‘e says to me: ‘Ye got a little candle in ye, Patty-Blue. You know its there even if no one else does. Ye gotta keep it fed, coz there’s a lotta bad things out there wantin’ t’put it out. Ye can’t let them put out yer candle, ye understand?’” Patrick paused and pointed to Annie’s sternum.

“So ye let yers go a lil dim. We just gotta feed it a bit, get it real bright again. Then we sinners can meet ‘Saint Alrick’ t’gether ‘owever long it takes. ‘ow’s that sound?” Patrick spoke in a soothing tone, one which Annie hadn’t thought him capable. She put a hand to her lips to stifle a long, deep yawn as her weary head came to rest on Patrick’s sweaty shoulder. Annie moved a little closer, the smell of two days of sweat mixed with his comforting, smokey musky lulled her to into a light sleep. Patrick smiled as his tail carefully coiled around them both, heart leaping at the sensation of the soft hand in his giving a tender squeeze.

“Sounds… good.”

\---


	12. Sunrise Moonset

\---

Simone calmly walked along the lamp-lit boardwalks of The Restless Wharf with calm purpose. Though the moon had fully waned, its gentle pull was clear on the calm, humming current beneath slumbering ships and seabirds. As he traveled amidst crates and barrels, Simone found a few well-let merchant ships being offloaded in his path. He paused his progression and hung his head at the one empty space among them. There would be no more merry shanties being sung by the crew of The False Whispers as they bemoaned the weight of their burdens, or eagerly salivated over the tastes of port. Though no mention of the ship’s fate was written by his hand, Simone still felt a pang of sorrow that so many innocents were lost in the backdrop of his song as he continued traveling in the clear, starry night.

While Mouse’s plight was still fresh in his concerns, Simone’s thoughts drifted with his slowly gliding steps to another of his more recent companions as a series of tall lamp posts came into view. Though he’d yet to witness her enthusiastic performance first hand, Nerissa’s conversations about the arts of aerial silks produced a phantom image of the eager performer twirling and spinning on the night breeze atop a firmly stood lamp post. Nerissa’s youthful countenance, upbeat attitude, and enthusiasm for performance brought a nostalgic smile to Simone’s lips, as one by one the images of her loose band of acquaintances entered his mind and projected onto the landscape.

He wondered how many divine treats would find their way from Niko’s masterful skillet to the mouths of kings; nay, gods! He mused if Marwoelaeth would be the one to finally bring an end to soul-elitism and bestow consecution to the masses, ending the chokehold the rich would eternally have on the spirits of the poor. Would young H’aalyek attain the knowledge about the world his boyish heart so keenly yearned for and would Mouse ever find a refuge from the many injuries brought with age? And then the last of the band projected before him accompanied by a soothing, subtle breeze. Simone paused once more and gave the specter his full attention.

Within the setting of his lives’ work were placed three living sapphires, according to the Ballad’s prophetic text. The sapphires would be encased in rough diamonds and would see the journey to its final verse. Was the young man recovered from the swamp one of the three, and were the other images before him the ‘rough diamonds’ who would protect the precious blue stones? A sudden warmth swelled in Simone’s chest as he mused on on these questions, but just as quickly as the hopeful light conjured by his mental images came into being, the tiny motes were snuffed out; extinguished as the shadowed faces of those he’d led astray took their place.

He remembered each visage, each death in the pursuit of prophecy, and the cries of their loved ones. Simone recalled the moments that pained him the most, all brought before him in vivid detail. The memories of his consecuted soul brooked no clemency for his many, many sins. It took everything he had not to cry out, to beg for their forgiveness, and shut his eyes as the last of the faces appeared, the youngest and most hopeful among the souls lost while in his care.

Simone lifted his teary gaze to seek his beloved goddess’s divine body, only to find her shrouded in darkness among twinkling stars. Whether it was her silent judgement, veiled indifference to his continued plight, or his own guilt-addled imagination, Simone felt an icy pang of uncertainty pierce his chest beneath her lightless form.

“Have I failed you, Mother? Will I again?” he softly mused. Simone closed his eyes and placed a trembling hand over his heart, atop the embroidered black unicorn on his crimson vest. In the darkness behind lidded eyes, the image of his wife’s snarky visage met his vision. A small snort escaped a pale, freckled nose as the image crossed her arms and shook her head at him like she had in their happiest moments, sparking a sudden sensation that the very moment had happened before.

And then the memory came to Simone like the many candles that guided his prophetic writing. The lines were clearly edged on ancient pages as well as his own memories: this scene was just another verse in the song and he would continue walking to its beat. Simone’s resolve returned as he opened his eyes with a clear mind and continued walking down the wharf and closer to the one next stanza in The Ballad.

“After the moment of deepest doubt, crossing the heart in the darkened moon, her face would resume the pace onto the wings of darkness devout…” Simone whispered aloud as the imagined images vanished into the mundane surroundings of the docs.

Simone’s musings abruptly halted as he felt a sudden, unnerving chill and sensed something more substantial than his guilty phantoms lurking behind the lamplight. He closed his eyes and willed all other sounds from his searching hearing. All was silent to Simone Oleander when at last a single breath betrayed its owner from behind the cover of the lapping waves and midnight shanties.

“You aren’t very chatty tonight, little black bird,” he softly spoke and turned to a spot that seemed devoid of anything but old crates and a torch post. The little candle light of the torch flickered ever so slightly as Simone’s eyes narrowed. “You may keep your caws; I know you’re there,” Simone spoke directly to the spot where his ears sensed the presence. Movements passed, along with a few dock workers with sour looks cast to the statuesque drow in their space. When at last Simone and the lamp post were alone, the lamp’s candle flickered with the sound of amused laughter.

“Ah, so the mysterious bard listens better than most. The Crow would be impressed if his reputation did not precede him,” the voice applauded. The space between the lamp and Simone began to contort and shift until a small figure dressed in jet black and green rogue’s garb came to stand before him, hand on her hip and smirk on her lips. Her vivid green eyes seemed to burn like twin stars in the ink-black tattoo that resembled a strip of fabric across an otherwise comely Lotusden halfling face.

“Remember me, do you, Kara-Sue? Gods, its good to see you alive.” Simone gave a nod in familiar greeting to one among the number of phantoms who would never again come to plague him. Though it was the first time in his twentieth life he’d crossed paths with the woman before him, a playful sparkle came to her eyes at this sight of a face she hadn’t seen in decades. The figure calling herself ‘The Crow’ gave a dismissive wave at the sound of her true name but smiled that the bard before her remembered it.

“This one couldn’t forget the distinguished lad with an impressive set of ears in her master’s service. Why, his demise was fit for the troubadour’s somber song, or it would have been had he not been brought back thrice over — and with the same dashing face, no less. The bard _really_ should be more mindful, or is sixteen summers enough of a life for him? Ah, but this keen-minded crow discerns the bard did not risk arrest or worse in seeking out the beautiful heroine to reminisce on old times, did he?” The Crow cocked her head to the side in feigned musing as her ever-present smirk widened.

“Indeed; perhaps we should slip away to someplace more private?” Simone offered, earning him a chuckle and mock-maiden swooning.

“Ever one for propriety and discretion! Glad to see the ‘white rabbit’ hasn’t changed,” The Crow softy drawled, causing Simone to slightly cringe at the nostalgic pseudonym. The pair walked along the docks with deliberate steps through the barren streets that lead inland, and to a small alley devoid of mice and men. When neither set of keen ears could pick up even the faintest hit of other presences the conversation began anew.

“So what brings this white rabbit scampering from his comfortable mansion to this warren of wolves?” The Crow paused to take in the slight shine of surprise in her old associate’s eyes. “How does this charming and beautiful heroine know? We see everything and nothing, or have you forgotten? And honestly, someone of the bard’s fame, renown, and family ties does not go unnoticed around here. I do congratulate the pauper bard on his shiny new name, however. I’m sure it ‘purchases’ many liberties—”

“You assume correctly; now, if I may?” Simone paused as The Crow motioned for him to continue with a flourish. “What do you know about ‘The False Whispers?’”

“Hmm, the name seems familiar but this one’s memory is a bit foggy…” The Crow tapped her chin in mock thought. She cast a knowing look to Simone before asking him the same.

“…From what I’ve gleaned, just an ordinary ship caught in some foul intrigue. However, while we were searching for clues as to its fate, my companions and I found something very, _very_ interesting. Something no common merchant vessel would have aboard unless said ship’s captain was in your master’s employ. If you hear and see all, then you know of certain artifacts of an ‘illuminated’ nature being moved in the region by your master’s esteemed associates. So I ask you, why would The Myriad be so sloppy as to sink one of its own ships and let priceless cargo fall to the seabed with no clear aim to reclaim them, from what I’ve heard?” Simone crossed his arms as his waining patience was plain in The Crow’s perception. The Crow paused for a moment and and shook her head with a sigh.

“I should have known the mysterious bard was our esteemed client… this one’s master bid her take wing to suss out a rat in the pantry. A stupid, clumsy rat that will be vanquished by the lovely heroine… but this one is curious. If the bard has his order well in hand, then he can walk away satisfied. Unless he is foolish enough, forgetful enough to ask for a boon.” The Crow’s expression grew serious and truly confused for the first time in their banter.

“ _Half_ of my order,” Simone corrected with a significant look. “Not only is the more crucial part still missing, but a ‘loose end’ found his way ashore and you now have a pack of stays sniffing in your business. As we speak they’ve got their snouts down trying to sniff out the one who sank their pack-mate’s ship. Who knows, they may catch the scent of your rodent or other things they shouldn’t be nosing around in. I have a vested interest in keeping these lovable mutts alive until they recognize their master,” Simone sighed as one of his ears slightly flicked at a small sound somewhere beyond the alley. The Crow noted the familiar action as the pair continued their conversation.

“Oh, so you are requesting the heroine’s mercy for a pack of curs? No, there is more to it than that…”

“I’m asking an old comrade to exercise restraint while the mutts are trained to track more… lucrative targets, as well as the other portion of my order. Given the right direction, mayhap these curs can be made to exterminate the problem before us and retrieve more items of import to your masters. The Myriad maintains its discrete operations in the Concord and the lovely heroine need not get her hands dirty. How does that sound?” Simone asked, perceptive eyes scanning the woman before him for the subtlest hint of guile or deception. The Crow remained silent for a moment before a mischievous smile came to her lips.

“As intriguing as your proposal is, my dearest bard, it sounds like the hunt is afoot,” The Crow motioned to a spot just beyond the alley wall. Simone nodded and drew his bow.

“So I heard. Shall we investigate?” He softly asked with a small smirk The Crow had seen many times in their prior associations. She grinned and bore her daggers before melding with the shadows and giving an amused remark.

“Just like old times…”

~*~

“Ah, just like old times…” Juliet bemoaned the humble surroundings of morals busying themselves in the afternoon marketplace. “I can’t say these back-water rubes are any different from the ones back home. How quaint,” Juliet sighed. Melia moved a hand atop her breastplate to stop the sensation of a slightly vibrating hexblade, as she gave a begrudging grunt in agreement. They had only just arrived in the small town that was known as the “Welcome to the Empire” that morning, and if there was a greeting wagon anywhere that wasn’t carting around brewing supplies, the warlock and her patron seemingly missed it.

“Though a lot less drow and a lot more humans here, drunk humans. At least someone’s having a good time,” Melia turned her cloaked face to glance at a pair of human lads, no older than sixteen summers in her estimation, red-faced and laughing about some shenanigans an unseen friend was about while pickled in ale within the bustling crowd.

“Oh, what about those two? They look a bit drow-ish.” Juliet offered, slightly tilting her hilt in the direction of an elven couple passing by hand-in-hand. Melia looked to the pair who bore strawberry-blond hair, cool-colored eyes, and sienna complexion, with an incredulous scrunch on her freckled nose.

“Drow-ish? They don’t look drow-ish…” Mel asserted. Juliet gave an indifferent sigh before changing the subject back to the business that brought them to the town of Trostenwald in the first place.

“I do hope those silly soldiers gave us good information for all the time we spent on them,” Juliet said with an indignant huff.

“What are you complaining about? You didn’t have to deal with their grabby hands all in your britches. The information should be good, the documents have seals and notary stamps. Just need to wait and see…” Melia softly asserted as her gaze lazily drifted through the crowd.

“Please, this town has more taverns than horses, let alone any decent apparel shops. I doubt there is anything going on here aside from heavy drinking.” Juliet sighed in exaggerated forlorn.

“I just got us a whole new wardrobe…” Melia mused as she watched one of the drunk lads trip into a busy merchant much to his friends’ amusement.

“AND a bag of holding. You should thank me, young lady, I would have killed an entire pack of understudies for a walk-in closet of this quality.”

“You’d have killed them anyway,” Melia snorted, noting a few low-ranking Crownsguard heading into one of the many taverns encasing the main drag of Trostenwald.

“I would not! Well, mayhap — IF one of the little divas got too big for their petticoats,” Juliet asserted with a quiet ‘hum!’ Melia nodded and continued her idle vigil. Her eyes dully took in the routine, common actions of the care-free citizenry, lips occasionally forming a smile as she reached for a small, journaling tome that was long discarded. She hadn’t written a line of dialog in over four hundred years, let alone a full play, but four centuries on she found the scenes playing out before her no less captivating.

Young couples were courting with blushing cheeks. Businessmen were carefully playing the trade game like two subtle swordsmen. Guards in common uniforms marched around as if they were generals in ceremonial parades as children ran by them screaming with reckless abandon. Every small scene served a welcome distraction from her current artless existence until the desperate cry of a very young child struck an ill chord on Melia’s impromptu stage.

“No, give it back! Give it!” The little girl, an azure-skinned tiefling child no more than five summers in appearance, shouted with tears streaming down her face and her tail tucked between her little bare-footed legs. Melia watched at a pack of older children, humans, elves, and a few in-betweens, teasing the little tiefling with malicious, childish delight by tossing around what looked like a well-worn rabbit doll just out of her reach. Melia watched the struggle before casting an amused gaze to the unusually motionless dagger in her breastplate.

“What, no commentary?”

“Hmm? Oh no, seven hells no. Children. Ghastly creatures. You’re on your own,” Juliet spoke in a more reserved tone before going silent again. Melia smirked at her patron’s discomfort and took in the ‘ghastly creatures’ as one would clean spring air. It wasn’t until one of the children pushed the little tiefling girl down hard onto her stomach with a loud thud did Melia move to intervene. Though her stature was diminutive to most of the tall-folk, she easily towered over the still-spitefully cackling creatures in her sight.

“What game is this, ‘Push the littlest one down?’ Maybe I’m of a mind to play,” Melia flatly spoke. An elven lad who came to Melia’s collarbone dared give a come-back and tauntingly waved the thread-bare rabbit doll in his grip, nearly tearing its arm off. As the other children began to laugh and goad the boy, Melia smiled with a flick of her wrist. Suddenly, a massive magical hand appeared behind the crimsoned-cloaked woman. Melia swung her hand around, meeting nothing but air, however her magical counterpart struck all that stood before it with the speed of a whips’s crack. Some of the larger children stumbled back, while the smaller found themselves on their rears.

Nearby adults paused their conversations at the sensation of a gust of wind, only to turn to see nothing more than a mindful young woman scolding a gaggle of untruly children. With shock in their eyes and quivering lips, the children bolted from the square in search for their mothers, save for the tallest elven boy who held his ground and the rabbit doll. Melia took a deep breath before forcing her face to contort into a mad grin before conjuring a small black ball of fire into her palm. Whatever resolve the boy had instantly vanished as he turned, tossed the rabbit doll down, and bolted for the safety of a nearby shop.

Melia dropped the expression as her vision lowered to the tiefling girl who was now desperately cloying for her rabbit before clutching it close to her chest. The girl’s ebon -tipped and spiked tail flailed for a moment until the familiar sensation of the doll soothed the thrashing appendage. She winced and moved to stand before straightening her pale pink frock and exposing two bloodied knees to the afternoon air. Melia could hear her sniffling worsen, as the silver-eyed girl turned to look up Melia with mistrust and pain in her expression. Melia instantly dropped to one knee and brought her hands to the ground within the girl’s sight.

“Its going to be fine. Those brats won’t be bothering you for a bit. Is your dolly ok?” Melia asked, pointing to the bunny doll and distracting the child from her shallow injuries. The girl gave another sniffle and extended the long-soiled and fraying rabbit doll out for inspection with a little flick of her tail. “May I see it?” Melia asked, causing the girl to bring the doll back to her chest with an angry, pouting look. Melia could see the girl’s knuckles fade into a pale blue, as if the girl would defend the soft little toy with her very being.

“No!” the girl desperately spoke in a trembling voice.

“I see, you love your dolly very much. He could do with a good scrubbing and a few stitches though. I’m sure your mummy would patch him up for you,” Melia suggested, causing the girl to shake her head.

“She’ll throw Rudy a-away because blue daddy gave him to me,” the girl insisted. Melia gave her an exaggerated look of concern before turning her attention back to Rudy who appeared every bit as worn down as Melia did on any given day.

“Well we can’t have that. Now that Mr. Rudy and I have been introduced, what’s your name?”

“So-” the girl began to say but flinched at the memory of being struck by her mother for using the nickname before correcting herself. “Rosemarie.”

“Nice to meet you Miss Rosemarie, I’m Mel. Speaking of your mummy, where is she?” Melia asked, spotting no adult woman nearby among the wandering residents that remotely resembled the azure girl with raven hair and silver eyes before her.

“At work with elf daddy. Bael is supposed to watch me, mummy said.” Rosemarie informed and pointed in the same direction the stubborn and sassy elven child had fled. Melia turned to the shop, noting two Crownsguard in distinguished uniforms standing just out front, speaking with the shop owner about nothing that seemed important in her perception. “Elf daddy says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers but you helped me and Rudy. Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble, Rosemarie. Your, erm, ‘elf daddy’ is very right. There are lots of scary people out there. Your ‘friend’ Bael deserves a good whoopin’ for leaving you all alone like this. We should get you back to your mummy. What does she look like? Is she like you?”

“Hehe, no mummy looks like elf daddy. I look like my blue daddy,” Rosemarie stood a bit straighter, with a proud, preening stance and flourish of her nimble tail, before giving Rudy a tight hug.

“Your ‘blue daddy?’” Melia asked with a raised brow.

“Uh huh! Blue daddy gave me Rudy. Mummy says he’s a bad man and elf daddy hit him with a big, BIG lightning bolt. BAM!” Rosemarie mimicked the spell with childish enthusiasm, never once loosening her grip on Rudy. “Mummy won’t let him come see me anymore, but I know blue daddy is good. He tells me stories and gives me candy and cookies! He told me Rudy is his lil lookout so I have to protect Rudy for blue daddy,” Rosemarie asserted with a gap-toothed grin. Melia’s look genuinely softened.

“I see, that’s the way of it…” Melia sighed as she continued to watch the Crownsguard in the corner of her eye. Though every movement seemed mundane she caught sight of one of the men discreetly slipping a tiny piece of parchment into the shop-owner’s apron pocket before moving to depart in the direction of the station. Melia spied the shopkeep walk back into his store, past crates piled high with jars, some of which appeared to contain all manner of things colorful and sweet.

“Well, you are very luck to have a mummy and two daddies that love you and they would be very upset to see you by yourself and talking to a stranger. We should find a grown-up who knows you and do something about those knees. Do you know the man who works in that shop?” Melia asked with a point. Rosemarie’s gaze followed before she gave an excited gasp and quickly nodded.

“Mr. Grubber! He’s nice and gives me sweetie-syrup drinks!” Rosemarie excitedly, and loudly, informed with a happy spin in her tail. Melia gave an exhausted sigh but maintained an honest smile in the child’s innocent eyes. Melia stood and gave a little kick of her thin legs before extending her hand.

“Alright, let’s head to Mr. Grubber’s shop and see if we can get ahold of your mum or elf dad. If you’re good and wait quietly, I’ll even get you a nice treat,” Melia added, evoking a cheer from Rosemarie who reached out with a grabby ebon hand and took Melia’s into her own, clutching Rudy to her chest with the other. With her knees scabbed over and a new friend in her grasp, Rosemarie skipped with a twirling tail beside Melia in the direction of imminent sweets, unaware of the situation she was in, unaware of the bargaining chip she’d become in a game fit for no child’s playground.

\---


	13. Something ‘Mushy’ This Way Comes

\---

The well-worn paths within the once-traversed parts of the Quoraska jungle gave way to confusing twists and tangles of untrod roots the further Annie and Patrick traveled behind their confident guide. Using what few stars peeked through the lush canopy and Grimora’s musty old tomes as their guide, the unwitting escorts took in further perils of the forest as well as a few perks.

After nearly stumbling into a sink hole and finding scores of hungry ants eagerly pining for his supple flesh, Patrick all but leapt into a pristine pool beneath a small but fresh-flowing waterfall they discovered, the filthy tiefling did not bothering to take of his armor, let alone his clothing, in his seeming desperation for a soothing bath. Had it not been for Annie’s firm grip on reality and his barbed tail, Patrick may have lost a horn or his life to one of the jagged rocks hidden in the inviting waters. He blushed slightly as hetook a few steps back to remove his armor and shirt before sloshing in feet first around the cutting stones beneath. He sunk down until the water was over his shoulders and caressed his neck before letting out a pleasured sigh.

“C’mon girls, this water’s a miracle!” Patrick spoke with an enraptured shiver as the cool water washed away more than the four days worth of grime, grit, and stink that clung to every inch of him. Removing the tie from his hair, Patrick closed his eyes and took a deep breath before burying himself in the soothing water’s embrace. When he breached again, Patrick spied Annie taking off her armor but decidedly keeping her tunic, trousers, and boots on before walking towards the waterfall.

Patrick’s gaze followed the paladin’s careful steps until a curt cough brought his silver sight to Grimora. She didn’t look up from her tome as she moved to sit along the river’s edge, bare feet dangling in the pool. Patrick cleared his throat as Annie disappeared beneath the gently falling water.

“So, how much farther, ye think? To this ‘holy site,’ or wot’ever…” Patrick asked, blinking some water from his eyes as he leaned back to allow the water to reach his scalp. Grimora hummed before looking up from her tome.

“About a day, according to the text. We crossed over the sinking pits, followed the break in the trees east, and here we are at the tears of the moon,” Grimora informed and motioned to the waterfall.

“I see, s’this a wood elf holy place, err high elf?” Patrick asked as his eyes scanned Grimora’s form for any definitive hint of her heritage. Grimora smirked as his clumsy attempt at tact and gave an amused huff before responding.

“This site belongs to neither. If the site does exist, and I am confident it does, then it belongs to a small cult of my mother’s people: the drow,” Grimora informed with a cool smile.

“Drow, are ye? Ye don’t look drow-ish,” Patrick tilted his head and squinted to somehow make sense of her claim in the presence of her pale-heather skin, jet black hair, and ice blue eyes.

“I take after my father, but if you knew anything about Kryn Dens, then you’d know of the proud house of Mirimm, of which I am a daughter. Not that it matters on this side of the continent. A half-elf, is a half-elf,” she shrugged as she bitterly recalled her treatment in Little River and other towns north of the Wuyun Gate.

“I see, but erm, wot’s a drow-ish holy place doin’ in this neck’a th’woods? Y’think someone’d ‘ave found it by now, eh?” Patrick asked, rubbing the grime from his shoulder with the pads of his fingers.

“Mayhap if this holy site were above ground, but the drow of old lived beneath the ground, in a place called the ‘Underdark.’ This was before the calamity, of course, but that doesn’t mean all drow-made places were erased,” Grimora mused, going over the next set of descriptions from their current location. Patrick shrugged and leaned back into the pool once more.

“I see. Well, wot’ever we find out there, we’ll get ye there safe. Dunno ‘ow much longer poor Annie’s gunna last in these woods. Poor girl’s sick with worry over things and misses ‘er pony somethin’ awful,” Patrick smirked before his lips formed into a more sincere smile, “I know she won’t say it but we really appreciate th’work.”

“Yes, yes, something about finding your long-lost brother or some such. We can be about that once we conclude business here and return to Nicodranas,” Grimora dryly informed, gaze not leaving her book. Patrick’s confident look soon turned to one of questioning confusion.

“Come again?” Patrick asked, wiping the water from his face as if to remove something from his vision. Grimora turned a sharp, icy look to her companion but something behind her cheeks betrayed her cool demeanor. She cleared her throat.

“Well you two don’t appear to have two whits to rub together, let alone enough investigative acumen to find someone who may or may not want to be found. I can’t stand to see the figurative turtle on its back in the hot son when it is in my power to right it and steer it to the water.” Grimora smirked.

“‘Ey now, Annie’s plenty smart. If anyone can find him, it’s her!” Patrick protested, earning him a sharp laugh.

“Please, the two of you have more in common than you think, or don’t think, rather,” Grimora paused and willed her usually biting words and icy features to melt, if just for the moment. “What I am trying to say is, I want to help you two.”

“Oh yeah? Bollocks. Cleric or no, wot’s in it for ye?” Patrick asked as his bare feet found purchase and rose to stand and make his way back to shore. Grimora thought quickly, as she was loathe to twist the truth let alone lie. Their eyes met once Patrick reached the shore and she found the appropriate words.

“I have a hunch about something. I know someone on a quest of his own, and I know the written work that guides him very well. In fact, it’s the words in his poem that inspired me to take you two over more enthusiastic explorers. If my intuition is correct, then we will cross paths with your brother soon enough,” Grimora offered, thought it was not the whole reasons she chose to take on Patrick and Annie as her escorts, it was still truth enough to impart without loosing her companion’s confidence.

Patrick regarded her words as he leant over to wring the water from his long raven hair. When the last of the droplet found their way from the back of his neck and tip of his nose to the ground, he brought his eyes to hers once more.

“Well alright. Let’s be about it then, eh?”

~*~

Annie and Patrick stood in awe before a massive, half-sunken stone in the center of a stagnant lake. Lumbering shadows in the bough-darkened space, too sentient to be mere trees, paid them no mind as sparse sprinklings of purple spores danced about along with the creatures’ curious spawnlings.

Hundreds of tiny Myconid children, who left the shelter of their caves for the comfortably dim forest-cover, chittered and whispered wordlessly in a collective curiosity. They mused on the nature of these bold strangers from the safety of the study branches.

“See? Right where I said it would be,” Grimora smirked. The self-satisfied cleric hopped from exposed root to smooth stone in the stagnant lake with perfect balance.

“Aww, Annie, lookit all th’Mushies!” Patrick whispered to the allergy-addled aasimar with an extra-bright shine in his silver eyes. He waved to one, prompting all of them waved back with what looked like excitement in their beady black eyes.

“Is this it?” Annie exhaustedly asked, looking to mossy trees and dancing spots that wafted from on high to gently fall atop the still pool. Grimora paused to give a small nod before continuing towards the small island of fallen trees, leaves, and mineral deposits formed around the great rock.

“It is. It’s faint, but I can sense the light’s touch about this place. I can’t tell if the source is a beacon or some other blessing. I’ll need to get closer,” Grimora informed. Her icy eyes were alight with curiosity as she checked the rock for any signs of a door or opening. “Come, we’re wasting time.”

“If this is the holy sight you wanted to find then say your prayers and let this business be done…” Annie sniffled, looking to the great spaces between the partially submerged roots and stepping stones, then to her own, perceived stubby legs with a twinge of worry in her doe eyes.

“This ornament isn’t what I wanted to find. The touch of light lies far below.” Grimora spoke with annoyance rising in her tone as she knelt to examine a pile of six, teardrop-shaped stones with a seventh a size and a half larger than the rest. Grimora lifted one of the smaller stones, noting they were all the same shape, but each had a unique symbol carved into each base. She recognized the arcane symbols from her studies in dunamancy and asserted that this was, indeed, the site she was looking for.

The larger stone, true to form, had what looked like a simple bowl or half-moon symbol carved into it rather than anything pulled from musty tomes from back home. Grimora quickly brushed aside piles of moss, dead leaves, and twigs to reveal a deftly-crafted square pedestal, equally degraded as the matching objects.

“Did I stutter? Stop dawdling and get your arses over here!” Grimora growled and turned to see one member of her escort socializing with sentient mushrooms and the other doing mental calculations of how deep the water was should her clumsy feet betray her.

Grimora rolled her eyes before turning their gaze back to the objects and pedestal. There were seven grooves in the flat top of the pedestal and corresponding symbols were etched above each that matches the ones on the tear-drop stones. One by one she placed them in their corresponding grooves, paying no head to the sounds of Annie struggling to hop to where the priestess knelt and Patrick trying to encourage her from one step ahead.

When the six stones were in their corresponding grooves, Grimora moved to lift the seventh. Upon touching it, Grimora felt a quick-moving sensation of ice flow through her as her hand began to tremble. She fought back the strange energy emanating from the seventh stone and quickly put it in its place. When all stones were arranged, Grimora’s ear flicked at the sound of clicking beneath the pedestal. The sounds trickled down one after another until a large, hollow clang echoed from beneath, causing the stagnant pond to ripple for the first time in countless summers. There was a moment of tense silence as everything in the teeming space stopped moving.

Annie and Patrick figuratively froze just an arm’s length away from one another as the pair fearfully looked around to find all the myconids gone. Their breath was the only utterances they dared make as the water beneath began to slowly, subtly stir. Grimora’s icy gaze quickly flew from the pedestal to the water of the stagnant pool, which occasionally bounced with a rumble. Her heart and breath began to race as each bounce of the water came, faster and faster until the entire pool began to bubble and churn. Grimora looked to the pedestal once more, which was now glowing and confirming her growing fear.

“Run, RUN!” She shouted over the churning water and raced from what few stones and roots remained to form a path. She did not turn back to see the water rising into a hill behind her as more rocks and roots came into view as the pool receded. Annie’s gaze went wide her her lips parted at the sight of the water-hill growing into a tower of swirling liquid before six smaller formations began taking shape around it.

When the first, gigantic pillar seemed to sprout arms, a head, and a stern face Annie’s shaking feet finally moved her in the opposite direction of the submerged shrine. To everyone’s surprise the greater water elemental addressed them with a calm but powerful voice.

“Interlopers, defilers, murderous outsiders! You trespass on sacred ground. We obey the will of the Half-Moon Covenant and will purify this temple of your corruption. Perish!”

Before any of the travelers could make their case, a sudden surge of energy had Grimora leading the group away from their goal and speeding back through the path they already tread. The three mortals ran as fast as their legs could carry them as the elder water elemental motioned for its smaller comrades to advance toward the fleeing trespassers. The elder elemental began pulling water from deep beneath the pool as a blanket of water began to rise well passed the treetops at its will. The water churned but maintained its shape, shaking loose branches, vines, hapless animals, and other particulates from the canopy above.

When it was satisfied with its collection, the elder elemental brought around its arm in a quick, fluid swipe sending the treacherous tsunami forward with terrible speed. Despite their best effort and skillful dodging of water spells at their backs, Annie, Patrick, and even the noble-footed Grimora were engulfed by the green tide. The sound of small, gasping screams were overtaken by the thunderous rush of water as the three struggled to stay afloat while dodging debris.

“Patrick!” Annie wetly called with a deep breath, flailing and clawing for anyting to grasp onto to keep her head above water. With a rhythmic bob, her face would breach and quickly scan the fast-flowing current for any signs of her companions. She furiously kicked, thinking quickly as her leather-bound feet searched for purchase below her, but found little aside from the occasional branch or vine. With a yelp of fright, she felt something roughly grasp her ankle and pull downward. Annie didn’t dare open her eyes in the particulate-laden water as the swirling grip on her person tightened and held her fast below the rapids’ surface.

Bubbles burst from her lips as a large object struck her chest before being carried away. Her eyes opened for a moment to see nothing but fuzzy green murk as she brought her hands down to punch and claw at whatever had her in its murderous grasp. When nearly all her air was spent, a flash of blue cut through the gloom, being pulled by what looked like a bubbling watery blob.

The blue object released its grip on the unwilling mount and brought a fuzzy, long object to strike at Annie’s assailant, causing a flurry of bubbling movement before Annie felt herself released and flowing free once more. A pair of strong hands gripped her waist and pulled her head above water once more.

“I got ye!” Patrick breathlessly shouted over the roaring water as his powerful legs were more than enough to keep their faces clear of the drowning rapids. “Stay wiv me!”

“I-I’m — where’s Grim?” Annie asked as she braced for a large tree in their path. Patrick pulled them just clear of a bone-cracking death as Annie scoured the water’s surface. “Grimora!”

“Shit!” Patrick grunted as he felt the water around them violently shift direction, the water elementals now moving to surround them. Annie and Patrick struggled to fend off swipes from the water elementals, floating projectiles, and their own fatigue as the mass of water traveled to a sizable clearing within the trees, to join the slow-flowing waters of a river they’d traversed the morning before.

The placid river water soon joined the thinning green murk, revitalizing its speeding pace and emboldening the water elementals that jostled the pair. Patrick managed to lance one, only for the creature to bounce back into shape. Annie’s mouth was too full of water for her words to flow, drowning out any potential spell that would stay their pace.

Further panic came to the pair’s flailing struggle as the horizon before them sharply dropped off into the distant tree line.

“Shit, shit!” Patrick gargled as he pulled Annie close, kicking as hard as he could to keep their heads above water. Patrick and Annie braced themselves for the terrible fall that awaited them down river, the soothing pool they enjoyed as a respite now seemingly destined to become a permanent place of rest.

Just as they felt the bottom of the river leave their toes and the sinister spray of the elementals further surround them from beneath, a bolt of pure light came from somewhere ahead along the shore, striking one of the elementals square in its core. Another bolt came, and then another, until only two elementals remained intact. It was enough to break the hold on the pair of struggling adventurers, who desperately and exhaustedly pawed at the water, hoping to find rock, root or any other lifeline to the shore.

It was then, as they quickly approached the end of the horizon, that something rose from the river-bottom to meet them. Both pairs of tired feet and hands found purchase on something solid yet slightly sticky. The remaining two water elementals regrouped only to pause at the sight of the massive object rising from the river, parting the water in two, as it stood with both trembling adventurers on its cap. As Grimora ran, vines in hand, towards where her companions looked certain to fall from the river’s drop-off, the sight nearly caused her to slide into the treacherous waters herself.

There, just before the fall, stood what looked like a giant mushroom with sturdy legs and trunk-strong arms staring down the two elementals surging together in confusion up stream. Patrick and Annie looked down to find themselves seated on the creature’s hood, trembling and covered in strange purple spores. Patrick could feel a tingling sensation on his neck, where the purple powder was thickest. Annie could do little else but look at her violet hands in shock. It was then the pair heard a gentle but powerful voice echo in their minds.

“You have defended the holy place valiantly, my comrades, but these ones are in my care. Return to your watch,” the voice slowly rumbled with the faintest hint of echoing age. The water elementals paused for a moment before joining the waters and receding up river until the last of the green water in the river gave way to blue. Annie gave a shivering gasp of fright as the cap they rested on turned as the body beneath it moved towards the safety of the shore where Grimora waited.

“I-I can’t believe — how did?” Grimora pondered as some of the violet powder made its way from the Myconid’s cap onto her exposed hands and face. Once the spores found themselves in her system, Grimora too heard the aged voice.

“I should ask the same of you, half-blood. Long has it been since I or my vast circle have seen your like in our protectorate. I have lived long, and have many names, but you may call me… ‘Mushy.’” The elder gave a large, joyful smile before continuing. “Have you and your companions come to honor the covenant?” Mushy asked with a curious tone as he knelt to allow his burdens to find their way onto shore. As Patrick and Annie tended to wounds both within and without, Grimora responded.

“I am a truth-seeker, honored, erm ‘Mushy.’ I am a cleric of the Luxon and I am come to this place to discover if the rumors of a Luxon Beacon’s presence here are true. I could sense the light’s touch about your ‘protectorate,’ which leads me to to believe there is something to the rumors. It is my sworn duty to retrieve the beacon, if that is the case.” Grimora asserted, keen vision scouring the elder’s wrinkled face for any twitch of confirmation. The elder smiled and a long, deep, hearty laugh echoed in their minds.

“Indeed. I doubt not your conviction, little cleric, but we swore an oath to the lunar divine that no one less than the blood of her chosen child be allowed passage. Tis an ancient covenant made long before I was spawned and shall remain long after, until her chosen child returns to claim what dwells beneath. Only they and their companions will be able to turn the key and gain the blessing of the guard.” The elder informed as a beam of light breaking through the canopy caused him to grumble and move to better tree-cover. Grimora’s mind raced, as the elder’s words tumbled through her head as she struggled to gasp their meaning.

“‘Lunar divine’… ‘blood of her’… ‘turn the key’…” Grimora mused aloud as she glanced to her companions. She raised a brow at the sight of several Myconid children scurrying to and from where the pair of still shaking adventurers sat, depositing fresh-picked fruits and medicinal herbs before dashing back into the underbrush. Grimora sighed and closed her eyes before turning back to the elder once more.

“Thank you for being so candid, honored elder. Oh, and for saving my companions, of course. I do have one question: Would this lunar divine be Sehanine, the Moon…bow,” Grimora’s eyes sparkled with realization as the elder before her gave a wide smile.

“Twas one of her children who bid us from our darkened homes to this far away land. We were to serve as the holy site’s stewards along with your kin and their chosen guard, the tide elementals, until her chosen, clad in flesh, came to honor the covenant. Do you know such a personage?” The elder gleaned from the bright sparkling glint in Grimora’s gaze as her thoughts turned to a mortal who also bore the name “Moonbow.”

“I do.”

\---


	14. Do Blue Tieflings Dream of Exploding Fish?

\---

Recovery opened his eyes to the ever-illuminated darkness that was slowly startling him less with each pre-dawn morning in his true, tiefling state. He stretched and rolled to his side, cocooning himself in the simple but warm bedding. A small, relaxed moan came at the sensation, despite being fulling fully covered in bed-clothing from the neck down. The savory smells from the kitchen below luridly beckoned, but the sounds of unfamiliar voices and the thought of strange eyes on him stayed any effort to emerge from the comforting cloth chrysalis.

The last week or so had gone by with only minor incident. While searching for clues in the businesses around The Booty’s Call per Skipper’s instruction, the gaggle of strangers-turned-acquaintances spent their days dusting shelves, arranging display cases, prepping dough, folding apparel after eager customers would leave the displays in disarray, and other mundane, if not well-paying, work. For Recovery’s part, he had been darting around town making deliveries on behalf of a small general store just down the lane from The Booty’s Call.

While Recovery was always careful to keep his mask on and hood drawn, the occasional flash of silver or blue from beneath always had a customer curiously commenting or peering at him in ways that made his flesh crawl. Still, he had never lost composure in front of the barrage of uncomfortable comments, quickly earning a growing reputation among The Skew’s elderly as “that well-spoken delivery-hood.”

‘Delivery-hood’ could feel the morning light penetrating through his blankets and with a begrudging sigh, finally rose to get ready for the day. He scrubbed the smokey scent from his azure skin as best as the meager amount of water and small washcloth would allow. He worked both on his flesh, only stopping when a violet hue began to bleed through the blue, regardless if the offensive odor was fully expunged or not. He covered his tender skin with floral oil and then his clothing before putting on his mask, bringing his hood well over his features and heading out of his inn room to the tavern below.

There Recovery found the source of the voices, men delivering crates and satchels of goods to a relieved-looking Grash’nella. He quickly turned his gaze to the seating area and gave a soft sigh of relief as the freshly-wiped tables appeared devoid of patrons. As Recovery approached the bar area, the sounds of clinking, huffing, and grumbled thoughts caught his attention. He learned over to see a familiar deer-like tail flitting about as it’s owner appeared to be arguing with himself over the the proper contents of a bread recipe.

“G’morning, Recovery. Sleep well?” Grash’nella greeted as she took what looked like four large sacks of grain and effortlessly tossed them into the kitchen area with muffled plops.

“Good morning. I was quite comfortable, thank you…” Recovery’s attention and gaze turned back to the loud mumbling and curses from beneath the bar. Grash’nella sighed.

“Your boy’s been in a mood. Seems t’baker don’t agree wit ‘is cookin’ style,” Grash’nella informed with a smirk. Niko bolted upward, hitting the top of his head on the bottom of the bar with a loud yelp. He then emerged, red-faced and scowling in Grash’nella’s direction before emphatically exclaiming about the bakery’s ‘half-baked’ ideas about crust density to fluffiness factor.

“Well, you only have to endure it until we get the, um ‘scones’ Skipper needs. You haven’t heard anything about the ‘special ingredients’ to make them have you?” Recovery asked, eyes moving to the delivery men who were appeared to be checking their invoices against the items brought into the tavern. Niko looked to Recovery with utter confusion in his young features, before a bright look of realization followed by an exaggerated cunning came to his smirking face.

“Ah, yes, yes the SCONES, Skipper ordered, of course! No word on those ingredients, I’m afraid. I’m keeping my ears open for them, as soon as they arrive. Nothing at your store either?”

“No, nothing — b-but we’re working with our suppliers. We’ll get those scones put together for sure,” Recovery insisted with a nervous chuckle, as the sounds of potential sales opportunity brought the delivery men from their conversation. “Speaking of scones, could I get some tea and toast, please?”

“Tea and toast? I am a god among chefs, spreading my family’s famous recipes far and wide, and you ask for tea and toast?” Niko asked and crossed his arms. Recovery gave an honest smile before correcting.

“When when you put it that way, I’ll have a Mimosa and poached eggs over biscuits then, if you please. Oh and some morning sausage with cream-gravy would be lovely too,” Recovery posited with a nostalgic glint in his eyes.

“That’s more like it!” Niko’s eyes shined bright as he quickly scurried back into the kitchen to fulfill an order worthy of his divine touch. Recovery smiled at the thought of enjoying his favorite breakfast meal again over simple road-faire and waved to Grash’nella before moving to one of the tables to sit in quiet anticipation.

From his new vantage, Recovery spied not an empty grouping of tables, but Marwoelaeth sitting by himself in the far corner of the room, seemingly tinkering with some bowls and herbs in muttering concentration. He hadn’t spoken to the dragonborn outside of a few comments within the group since their first meeting. While he would partake in ‘Alrick’s’ usual meal, Recovery hesitated at something his former self was trained to effortlessly do since he could form polite sentences.

The future Lord Alrick Osiander had mastered the art of making proper conversation and reciting apt compliments, if not his spell casting. But what remained of that confident lordling sat without words for even the most casual greeting, nor impressive incantations that would impress or entertain his fearsome acquaintance.

Recovery smiled as his mind began to drift and conjure a fond image of a thin, grinning tiefling child in the seat across from him. He reminisced about how Luciel would always turn on the charm whenever he had the good fortune to get someone’s attention. Even as he was chided, or passively insulted, the precocious youth always found a way to turn it all around with a gap-toothed grin. Luciel endeared himself to all comers, much to their father’s distain. Were he here, Luciel would surely know how to approach Marwoelaeth and have the surly dragonborn eating from the palm of his hand as if it were filled with Niko’s divine morsels, Recovery internally asserted.

Even with his brother’s conjured image smiling and encouraging him, for every reason Recovery posited to himself to get up and join Marwoelaeth’s table, two more reasons not to took its place. By the time Recovery came to a decision, his order arrived and kept him affixed with the coaxing smell of food and safety in his own solitude.

Recovery thanked the beaming Niko, who gave a smirking bow and basked in the older man’s compliments. Before the tiefling could remove his mask and take up his cutlery, the enthusiastic young chef was already making his way to Marwoelaeth. Upon Niko’s cheerful interruption, Marwoelaeth cast the youth a sharp look before dismissively commanding the lad to bring him ‘whatever he has on hand’ before waving him away and continuing his experiments.

Recovery didn’t have long to fret at the sight as the aroma of a tantalizingly nostalgic breakfast brought his attention to the plate before him. He carved a properly portioned bite as he closed his silver eyes at the sensation of being brought back to his father’s noble table. The scent of his father’s favorite gravy made Recovery forget his surroundings and condition, if just for a moment. He lifted and placed a small morsel on his cumbersome purple tongue with a pang of panic as Recovery was once again brought back to reality. As with his horns, tail, and dark-vision, Recovery’s tongue had also changed, becoming thrice as long as it once was. It had taken him over two weeks of constant practice to speak normally, let alone eat in a way that wasn’t unseemly.

Recovery quickly reached for his mimosa to cover his clumsy chewing, taking a small and then more sizable sip. The next bite was more measured, as it had been since his transformation and would remain no matter how much the flavors tugged at his memories. When a little more than half his plate was empty and the slight bubbling in his glass had all but floated away, another blue form took her place across from him with a small grunt.

“Good Morning, Recovery,” Nerissa greeted as Recovery quickly and carefully chewed and swallowed the bit of food in his mouth before responding.

“Nerissa, good morning. Did something exciting happen?” Recovery asked, noting her effervescent smile and slight bounce in her shoulders. She nodded in confirmation and leaned forward to quietly continue.

“Exceedingly so; I may have a lead,” she whispered as Recovery looked about the tavern to see a few patrons trickling in.

“Go on? We’ve, um been waiting on those ‘ingredients’ for our ‘scones’ for nigh on a week…” Recovery spoke with a leading voice, eyes quickly darting from the patrons and back to his companion. Nerissa’s confusing lasted only as long as a blink as she gave a nod and continued on in Recovery’s impromptu code.

“Yes I did get some word on our ‘order.’ Oddly enough, never thought I’d find the right seasoning for our baking project at the fish market of all places. But the sailors who came to watch this morning’s silks dance performance were pretty eager to spill about all the best, and worst, places to eat in this part of town. Seems there is a stall at the fish market all of them insisted I stay away from. The fish ‘tastes like bitter blood’ — and any wise traveler who’s bitten into a false coin knows the taste well…” Nerissa reasoned. Recovery regarded her words for a moment just as Niko was passing by to deliver Marwoelaeth’s order.

“Bitter blood in food? Everyone knows sweet pork bones with marrow-in is the way to go, especially with tomato sauce, not blood…” Niko mused with an annoyed huff as Marwoelaeth cast him a suspicious and somewhat intrigued look.

“What’s this about bitter blood?” Marwoelaeth inquired as Niko responded by motioning to Recovery’s table. Nerissa turned to wave to the two, beckoning Recovery to pick up his plate and move the conversation to Marwoelaeth’s more secluded table. When four of the six companions were gathered with the other two already well at work afield at their respective jobs, Nerissa recounted the information which seemed to swirl like a lively tempest behind Marwoelaeth’s cold, undead eyes.

“Hmm. So what you’re saying is, whomever is attacking ships is doing it with… exploding fish? Intriguing…” Marwoelaeth mused, causing Nerissa to stammer and blink.

“N-No? I’m thinking they are — ”As she tried to correct the strange leap of logic and find out what in her words would lead the witch doctor to this prescribed conclusion, another voice echoed the concept.

“Exploding fish? A round-about method to be sure, but not impossible. But how feasible is it especially if our attackers aren’t using spells?” Recovery mused, his eyes catching the excitement clear in Marwoelaeth’s own. Though Nerissa struggled to get a word in between them, Recovery pushed back his own misgivings to facilitate the conversation he’d been so agonizing just a moment earlier. Marwoelaeth leaned in and pulled his chair closer with an honest, crooked smile spreading across his cracked maw.

“Think about it, it’s the perfect plan! With the right fish, say one with teeth that can act as a flint, and with the right magic…”

“… you load up the fish with flammable powder, making them a natural ordinance, then control the fish remotely with a suggestion spell, have them swim up to the ship of choice, a click of the teeth and you set off a chain reaction!” Recovery mused with a flick of his well-covered tail.

“Aye, the only rub is getting enough of the darn things and finding the flash-point in that much choppy water…” Marwoelaeth rubbed his chin with a furrowed brow as his mind delved deeper into his pooling thoughts.

“Um, I don’t think — ” Nerissa paused with a sigh and smile, “You know, there’s only one way to find out. We should check out the fish market as soon as we can to see if these ‘exploding fish’ even exist first. Then you boys can experiment to your heart’s content. Are you free now? I wasn’t planning on performing again until later this evening.”

“I have a few deliveries to make, but the last of them is actually, serendipitously enough, at a stall in the fish market. I can be quick about the rest and we can be about it,” Recovery informed with a determined nod. Marwoelaeth snorted, as if the thought of acting rather than further rumination was more an interruption than progression, but gave a curt nod.

“I’ve nothing better to do. If we do find evidence of the exploding fish, we can bring samples back to test, eh?” Marwoelaeth asserted, causing Recovery to give an affirming flick of his tail before standing. He gave a warm ‘see you all later, then’ before heading out to begin his deliveries with the remains of his breakfast left uneaten but all the nourishment he needed to face whatever they found, together.

~*~

Mouse rubbed the fur on the back of his neck, feeling the wet, matted hairs and picking at the clumps that clung there for what felt like ages. How he ended up working at the armory of all places, he couldn’t remember but it had been a week or so since Mouse found himself washed ashore and caught in a strange net of intrigue and investigation far beyond his former simple existence.

He did his best to push the faces of his captain and crew from his thoughts, focusing on the uneven cobble stones before him as the path to The Booty’s Call had become so routine he didn’t even need to read signs or look for landmarks anymore. Even the same half-elf drunkard that Mouse marked on his first few days at work became little more than scenery along with the rubbish bins and hungry rats.

“Afternoon, Locke,” Mouse spoke as he deftly avoided tripping over the snoring man who gave a brief snort in reply before going back to his alcohol-addled dreams.

Despite the rumble in his belly and the sight of the familiar tavern coming into view, Mouse gave a grunt, as if to deny both in that moment, and kept walking. His steps meandered around familiar lanes with pungent, ever-present odors of refuse and sea salt. The smell of brine and day-old fish only grew stronger as the sounds of hawkers bespeaking the quality and economical nature of their wares met his keen hearing. Mouse looked up to find his feet had carried him to the local fish market, which entertained many patrons despite what looked like slim, mid-day pickings.

Among the crowd of rag-adored locals looking for bottom-coin fish, a familiar smattering of feathers caught Mouse’s eye. He observed H’aalyek shaking slightly and tripping over his words in the presence of an annoyed-looking vendor. In spite of his urge to keep walking, Mouse found himself at the young aarakocra’s side.

“What’s the trouble, bird?” Mouse spoke in his usual slow drawl. H’aalyek nearly leaped out of his leathers but tried to smooth his nervously clicking beak with an effervescent laugh.

“Trouble? Oh, there’s no trouble at all. I was just asking the nice fish-seller here if he had any fish that, uh ‘sparkled like stones’… o-or was it ‘scones’,” H’aalyek paused as if trying to remember something very important the others imparted to him on his way to lunch, “I didn’t know scones even sparkled. Stones would make more sense as a great many of them do, in fact, sparkle…”

Mouse and the vendor gave H’aalyek a bemused look. While the vendor had the escape of another customer to tend to, Mouse found himself attempting to sort out the jumbled thoughts that came from his companion’s beak.

“Was this something the others told you about?”

“Why yes, they explained everything in great detail. We’re looking for something S’kipper wanted here at the fish market. Nerissa winked at me and told me and to look for fish that sparkled like ‘scones’ or ‘stones’, or was it _for_ scones? I can’t imagine fish scones would taste very good, unless its a Tabaxi family recipe. Stones in scones would hurt even my beak and probably chip most people’s teeth…” H’aalyek tapped his beak. Mouse picked through H’aalyek’s words and gathered their meaning before giving a decisive nod.

“Well, good luck on your quest,” Mouse patted H’aalyek on the shoulder and walked away before H’aalyek could be moved from the thoughts baking in his brain. Mouse snorted as his keen eyes took in the sight of the rest of his companions scattered about the market making similar inquiries. Mouse paid no mind to the figures both strange and familiar until one in particular caught his eye and brought him from his somber thoughts.

He smiled as Recovery’s cloaked but not fully-obscured features came into view. The young man was speaking with a vendor, Marwoelaeth looming behind with a pensive expression on his maw all the while, without the aid of his mask. Mouse could even see a slow sway beneath the tiefling’s cloak, punctuated with the occasional turn to make excited conversation with the towering dragonborn. While the urge to greet his companion did well up in his chest, the want to stay out of whatever business they were up to was enough to quell the action.

Mouse deftly snuck past, catching a brief piece of odd talk about projectile exploding fish and catalysts and continued on his way with his thoughts. Mouse closed his eyes for a moment and remembered the effects that they recovered from the beach and a cold pang came to his chest at the thought of the lacquer box.

One of his closes friends, a clever gnomish lass he knew as ‘Ruruta Wells’ had crafted the item as a gift to their captain. She was not a fighter in his measure, nor was she particularly gifted when it came to tending to the ship, but Wells was quick with a snappy song, kind word, or entertaining story. Mouse had never seen such amazing works in wood as when he first laid eyes on the most mundane of her works, one he knew put his tiny whittled figures to shame.

Mouse’s wandering steps would have taken him safely from the fish market and whatever murky business his companions were trying to sniff out had something small and suspicious not caught his eye. What looked like a small hooded figure struggled behind a large stack of crates as if caught on something. The sounds of panicked whispers and tugging turned Mouse’s head as a small puddle of glittering water began pooling beneath the small figure.

“Shining… ‘scones’.” Mouse mused as the hooded figure finally freed itself and a small box from within one of the larger crates. The figure raised its snout, which looked like a kobold’s scaly maw, and looked around before conspicuously slinking away from the market in Mouse’s direction. The little cloaked kobold’s muttering could be heard even at Mouse’s several tail-length distance and grew louder it not any more discernible the closer they got.

“Quiet and quick, quiet and quick…” The kobold muttered as if chanting a mantra to keep their small steps steady and breathing calm. So focused was the cloaked kobold in their chants that they did not notice the sizable tabaxi stepping in their path. The cloaked kobold hit the obstacle head on, falling back onto its haunches with a yelp, but not dropping the parcel in their grip. Two beady yellow eyes met Mouse’s intense amber gaze and the kobold froze in fright.

“Ho there, little friend. Didn’t mean t’startle you. You doing alright?” Mouse spoke with a deep, intimidating timber in his voice as he knelt to offer a massive clawed paw to help the Kobold to their feet. The Kobold didn’t move, appearing as petrified as one of Mouse’s delicately-carved figures. After giving a small, unsure look to the paw before them the kobold shook its snoot and stood on its own.

“G-Good, good, good. I’m good, very good. Must go now!” They assured with a shaking, squeaking tone as they shuffled past Mouse and dashed as quickly as possible away from the fish market and feline. Mouse watched after the suspicious little kobold with a snort, as something wafting in the late afternoon air caught his eyes. Given the direction the neatly folded scrap of parchment flew from, Mouse’s mind assumed it came from beneath the kobold’s cloak.

Mouse knelt to pick up the little parchment and what unfolded was a mystery that would soon bring him back to reality and to the companions waiting for his return at The Booty’s Call.

\---


End file.
